The Fifth dayof the Star Program began the way most days did: synthetic sunrise panels humming to life, the dorm lights flickering on like cold judgment. Julian opened his eyes to sterile white and the quiet rhythm of a world too curated to breathe.
The night bled quietly into the sterile hours of morning. Julian woke not from rest, but because he hadn't truly slept. Again. The dorm lights remained off, the only glow leaking from the narrow slit between blackout curtains. His back ached. His chest ticked.
He pressed his hand to it.
Tick. Tick.
The sound wasn't loud. Just constant. Always there. Not painful. Not urgent. Just... there.
Marvo groaned from the other bed. George was already awake, doing pushups in the corner like he needed to fight gravity just to stay grounded. Ren mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the blanket over his head. Tae stood at the mirror brushing his teeth in slow circles.
Julian sat up, the synthetic sheets clinging to his sweat. His chest ticked—a slow, steady whisper of machinery hidden under skin. It wasn't pain. It wasn't comfort either. Just presence. Always presence.
The city was a jagged silhouette in the distance.
---
The complex outside their assigned quarters was a polished maze. Pristine walls. Cameras mounted like flies. Everything clean to the point of being uncanny.
He wandered.
His feet led him toward the lesser-used stairwell between rehearsal floors. It was quiet here. No drone hum. No static buzz. Just concrete and silence.
He sat halfway up the flight. Let his eyes close.
And drifted.
Not into sleep.
But into memory.
He didn't dream of home often.
But when he did, the dreams came not in color, but in texture: the flaking concrete of the orphanage walls, the rough linen blankets that barely covered their feet in winter, the scent of rust and boiled water, the way the floor creaked under the weight of too many boys pressed into too little space. Their home had been built into the underbelly of the old city—too low to catch sunlight, too high to be washed away by the floods.
It stood like a wound the city forgot to cauterize.
The orphanage wasn't a place people talked about fondly. It wasn't a place at all, really. More like a series of half-collapsing structures built into the bowels of the city. In Delta 9-floor 17, the lowest tier of urban settlement, there were few things built to last. The buildings weren't meant to be homes. They were meant to store things: bodies, mostly. The unwanted. The poor. The too-sick-to-sell.
They had called it Floor 17- unit 47. Not a name. A number. No roof garden. No structural enhancements. No elevators. Just a block of compacted grief—just rusted stairs and a security lock that never worked. Power outages were common. So were leaks. So were funerals.
As mold climbed the inside walls like ivy. The ceilings wept in the rainy season, heavy from the weight of the pipes used to redirect rain water. Waste water too boorish and unrefined for the upper class to use. It was dumped there because having proper rain water was beyond what they deserved.
He used to lie on the floor and trace the cracks in the metal with his fingers, pretending they were maps to somewhere better.
And the sun? It was a rumor. A myth whispered by volunteers who came once a month to drop off expired food packs and judgmental glances.
And still, they had laughed there.
Julian, Marvo, George, Ren, and Tae hadn't met in a dance studio or an online casting call. They met in bunk beds and stolen meals. They met hiding bruises and building dreams out of illegally downloaded music videos.
There was never shame in it. Never.
Julian had never flinched at the word slum. Never looked down when someone asked where he was from. He and the others wore it like armor—because that place had shaped them. It had made them. It had fed their hunger with fire. There was nothing glamorous in it, but it was truth. And when they danced, they danced with every part of it still buried under their skin.
They never talked about being poor like it was a flaw. It was just fact. One they meant to rewrite.
Back in the present, the stairwell light buzzed once. Julian opened his eyes slowly.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there, but when he stood, his legs ached with stiffness. The rehearsal bell rang over the intercom—an annoyingly chipper tune—and he sighed.
Time to get moving.
---
Breakfast was smaller. Their egg portion had been halved.
"Performance-based nutrition, my ass," George muttered, jabbing at the yolk like it owed him money.
Marvo just pushed his tray away. "We're gonna starve in a palace."
Tae ate without a word. Ren tried to lighten the mood by impersonating one of the overly polite producers, but even that landed flat.
Everyone was on edge.
---
The Star Complex was everything their childhood wasn't. Too clean. Too cold. Too high. Julian had to wonder if this was what they had spent their whole life wanting
The windows overlooked a part of the city they had never seen before. Up here, the clouds parted differently. Up here, there was light. Manufactured or not, it was blinding.
Orientation drills pushed them past exhaustion. Cameras caught every stumble, every crack in their performance. The producers weren't subtle about their preferences—Group A, with their perfect teeth and symmetrical faces, were always praised for consistency. NOX got "raw potential" and "needs polishing."
That day, the drills were replaced with interviews. Julian was pulled into a solo session first.
He sat beneath a ring light, his face painted to hide the shadows under his eyes.
"What motivates you?" the producer asked.
"Living," Julian said.
The producer laughed like it was a joke. "No really."
Julian's voice didn't waver. "Living. The rest is extra."
Tick. Tick.
Later, they rehearsed in Studio 4, a soundproof box with too-white mirrors and pulsing LED strips. Julian's movements were sharp but not sharp enough. He was always a breath behind. Always a beat off. The others noticed, but didn't say anything.
Marvo caught him outside the studio, under the shadow of the east tower.
"You okay?"
Julian nodded.
"Not asking if you're fine," Marvo added. "I mean... are you okay?"
Julian hesitated. "Don't know."
Marvo offered a lopsided smile. "Well, let me know when you do."
They stood there for a while. Two boys from the gutters of Unit 47, standing under the clean architecture of the elite. It should've felt like a victory. Instead, it felt like trespassing.
Lunch was barely edible. By that point, no one joked about it.
The break room smelled like sterile wipe-down chemicals and stress sweat. Julian grabbed his tray out of habit but left it untouched. His head hurt. His feet dragged. Every inch of him felt one second behind.
So when he slipped away for air, it wasn't to be dramatic. It was survival.
---
That evening, Julian wandered the east corridor.
He didn't mean to find the grey-eyed boy again. But he did.
Same corner. Same quiet.
The boy looked at him, eyes pale as smoke. "You're limping," he said.
"Just stiff."
The boy nodded like he understood more than what was said.
"Your timing's still off," the boy said.
Julian blinked.
"Your weight shifts late," the boy continued. "Right foot. You're compensating through your shoulders."
Julian didn't know whether to be defensive or flattered.
"You're from Group A?"
The boy tilted his head. "Is that what they call us?"
Julian hesitated. "I guess."
The boy took a step forward. "You cover it well. The lag. Most wouldn't notice."
"I—"
"Why are you here?" Julian asked.
"I want to win," the boy replied. "And you?"
"I want to live."
The boy's expression didn't change. "That's harder."
Julian looked away first.
Do you remember my name, he asked
Julian's lips parted. "Sol."
"he smiled walked back down the hall, and was gone.
Julian stood there far longer than he meant to.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
---
Back in their dorm, the team ate quietly. George scrolled through old videos. Ren cracked a joke that no one laughed at. Marvo dozed off mid-chew.
Tae looked at Julian. "You've been zoning out."
"Just thinking."
"Try not to overdo it."
Julian nodded. "Trying."
In the silence that followed, and without noticing he pressed a hand to his chest.
"Do you think they're even real?" Marvo asked suddenly waking up. "Group A."
George snorted. "Who cares? They're still kicking our asses."
Ren mumbled, "I'd let them kick more if it meant food."
That made Marvo laugh, at least. A small thing. A tired thing.
Julian's hand drifted to his chest.
Tick.
The echo followed.
Tick.
It didn't hurt.
But it never stopped.
---
Later, when he lay in bed, the image of sol's eyes stayed with him.
He thought about the orphanage. The cracked walls. The stolen bread. The first time they sang together in that storage room and made something beautiful in a world that never gave them anything.
Julian had never felt ashamed of that life.
Not once.
But he was afraid.
Afraid it wasn't enough anymore.
Afraid his body would break.
Afraid that sol had seen right through him.
And what he is, is just a sham.
Tick.
And somewhere, behind the mechanics of his heartbeat, behind the soft hum of camera drones, Julian thought about what the grey-eyed boy had said.
That's harder.
Living was always the harder choice.
But it was the only one worth making.