The giant LED screens blazed to life behind PD Kwon, bathing the hall in electric blue light.
Then the survival show's logo appeared in sharp metallic letters: RISE OF THE IDOLS.
Cameras rolled forward on silent tracks, their red recording lights blinking like hungry eyes.
"Welcome to the most intense idol survival program ever created. One hundred and one trainees from across the industry have gathered here with a single dream—to debut in the ultimate global boy group."
PD Kwon adjusted his tie and smiled directly into the camera.
"But dreams aren't enough. Through grueling evaluation stages, team missions, and elimination rounds, these boys will be tested beyond their limits. Each week, rankings will shift based on performance, attitude, and most importantly—"
He paused, letting tension build.
"—public voting through our official app, livestream comments, and social media engagement."
The cameras panned across our faces, hunting for reactions.
"Because you, the global audience, hold the power to decide who rises and who falls."
I kept my expression neutral, even as my pulse hammered against the faint sting of the scent suppressor strip on my skin.
Somewhere in cyberspace, millions of viewers would judge us with the tap of a screen.
Our fate is balanced by the whims of strangers.
"Now, introducing your judges and mentors."
PD Kwon gestured toward the evaluation table positioned like a tribunal beneath the stage lights.
"Ryu Seongwoo, leader of Alpha 6 and three-time Artist of the Year winner."
The camera lingered on Seongwoo's composed face.
Even seated, his presence commanded attention—sharp jawline, perfectly styled black hair, eyes that seemed to dissect everything they touched.
"Coach Miyeon, former main dancer of StarLight and current industry choreographer."
Miyeon sat with military-straight posture, her severe ponytail and all-black ensemble radiating discipline.
"Vocal trainer Song Jaewook, who has coached seven debut groups to chart success."
The older Alpha's stern expression brooked no nonsense. His reputation for breaking trainees' bad habits preceded him.
"Now, moving on to the evaluation stage," PD Kwon continued.
"Each trainee will perform ninety seconds of prepared material. Our judges will then assign grades from S-class, representing star potential, down to F-class."
His smile sharpened.
"F-class trainees will be at risk of elimination."
A collective intake of breath rippled through the audience. Several trainees shifted nervously in their seats.
The cameras swept across us again, zooming in on tense faces.
"Rankings will be announced live, and your journey begins immediately. No second chances, no do-overs."
PD Kwon's expression brightened with artificial enthusiasm.
"But first, we need to hear from our incredible sponsors who make this dream possible."
The main screens shifted to display corporate logos—energy drinks, skincare brands, and mobile games.
"When we return, the evaluations begin. One hundred and one dreams. Seven debut spots."
The recording lights dimmed as crew members scurried across the set.
During the commercial break, crew members swarmed between the rows with clipboards and numbered cards.
The chatter around me buzzed with nervous energy.
I pressed my palms against my thighs, willing them to stop trembling.
How much had those cameras caught?
Every micro-expression, every bead of sweat, every unconscious gesture—all broadcast to millions of strangers who would dissect my performance frame by frame.
"These are your performance order cards," announced a production assistant, working her way down our row.
My stomach clenched. Please be a good number.
The assistant approached me and handed me a folded card. Number 47.
I exhaled slowly.
Perfect, middle of the pack.
Hopefully, I wouldn't follow immediately after the polished perfection of the Big Three agencies' golden boys.
Around me, other trainees compared their numbers with varying degrees of satisfaction or horror.
"Lucky you," whispered the boy beside me, showing his card. Number 90.
I nodded sympathetically, though privately I felt relieved.
As the only representative from my small agency, I had no safety net of company connections or group strategy sessions.
Just me, my voice, and ninety seconds to prove I belonged here.
"Thirty seconds until we're live!" The production assistant's voice cut through the chatter.
I glanced around at the other trainees, wondering who drew the dreaded number one.
Being first meant no warm-up, no chance to gauge the judges' moods, and no opportunity to learn from others' mistakes.
My question got answered quickly.
"Pulse Entertainment trainees, you're up!"
Four boys stood from the far left section, their matching purple and silver tracksuits catching the stage lights.
I recognized the agency's experimental reputation—they'd rather chase viral moments than traditional idol perfection.
The camera operators repositioned themselves as PD Kwon's television smile returned.
"And we're back! Our first performers represent the fearless innovation of Pulse Entertainment. Let's see what they've prepared."
The four trainees took the stage with surprising confidence for opening acts.
There was no nervous shuffling or apologetic bows; they owned their spotlight from the very start.
Their leader, a tall boy with silver-streaked hair, grabbed the microphone.
"We are trainees from Pulse, and we're going to show you that idols don't need to fit one mold! Our song is titled 'Break The Frame'"
Coach Miyeon raised an eyebrow. Vocal Trainer Song's pen remained motionless above his scoresheet.
Only Seongwoo leaned forward slightly, interest flickering across his features.
The music started—an unexpected fusion of traditional Korean instruments with heavy bass drops.
Not what anyone expected from an idol survival show.
The Pulse trainees moved in synchrony; their choreography mixed classical dance elements with street performance. It was mostly raw energy over polished technique.
Risky choice for the first performance. But bold enough to be memorable.
The Pulse trainees hit their final pose, chests heaving from exertion. Sweat glistened under the harsh stage lights as they waited for judgment.
The silence stretched uncomfortably long.
A moment later, the judges revealed their scorecards simultaneously.
C. D. F. F.
Gasps rippled through the audience. The Pulse trainees' faces crumbled, their earlier confidence evaporating instantly.
Two eliminations right out of the gate.
My chest tightened as reality crashed down.
These weren't amateurs—they were trained performers who'd probably spent years perfecting their craft.
If polished trainees from an established agency could score F-ranks within minutes, what chance did I have?
The cameras captured every moment of their devastation, hungry for the drama.
This wasn't just a competition anymore.
It was a massacre.