The floor thudded as Byul-Ee fell. She was exhausted, every muscle screaming from the relentless dance routine she had been practicing. Her eyes closed slowly, clinging to the faint light of the mirrored practice room.
"Hey, Byul-Yi! What will you become when you grow up?" her teacher had asked.
"I'm going to be a K-Pop singer!" she'd declared, her thirteen-year-old eyes shining with absolute, innocent hope. Inspired by the rising star Se-ol, a famous K-Pop idol, Byul-Yi wanted to be just like her.
Her family and friends supported her, and at fifteen, she was accepted into Sepulchre Entertainment, one of the most famous and richest companies in the industry. She had been excited and ready to start her journey as a trainee.
But she hadn't known it would be this hard. Her schedule was a brutal loop: wake up early, go to school, attend vocal lessons, and then endless, grueling dance sessions until past midnight. Still she practiced and her mentors praised her for her beautiful, siren like vocals and visuals.
Finally, Byul-Ee opened her eyes. She pushed herself up, drank quickly from her water bottle, and immediately cued the music to begin practicing again. She had to become a star.
She moved through the routine, striving for perfection with every kick and turn. The music throbbed, and she watched her reflection in the mirror—a graceful figure battling against fatigue. Time bled away as she drilled the choreography.
The air in the room was starting to feel bone-chillingly cold. Byul-Ee felt shivers crawling down her arms. "Why is it so cold?" she muttered, rubbing her palms together and crossing her arms over her chest. "It must be the heavy snow." She glanced toward the window. It was December, and outside, the snow was indeed falling heavily.
Suddenly, a loud squeaking sound cut through the music. Byul-Ee stopped, startled and scared, as the practice room door began to creak open, the knob slowly turning. Her heart didn't just race; it stopped, then hammered against her ribs. The light above her flickered violently.
"W-who's there?" she asked, her voice thin and dry.
Silence.
She gulped, her throat tight, and slowly walked toward the door. She cautiously pulled it open and peered out. She checked right, then left. The hallway was perfectly empty.
Byul-Ee forced herself to calm down. It was probably just the wind, or the ancient building settling. She looked at her phone—4:10 AM.
"That's enough for today," she whispered to herself, grabbing her bag.
She quickly left the practice room. As she finally walked out of the hallway's visibility, the entire bank of lights behind her shut down with a definitive click.