And so, from ninety-two trainees, the number swiftly dwindled down to forty-five.
People vanished quietly, almost imperceptibly, until one day it hit everyone just how empty the halls had become.
Among those who left were vocal standouts Adel and Akesh.
Akesh was the first.
One night, after returning from training, he went straight to his room, packed his belongings, and left the island the very same night. No announcement. No explanations. Barely a goodbye. Just an empty bed by morning.
Then, before the sun had fully risen the next day, Adel followed.
The suddenness of it all left a sour taste in many of the trainees' mouths. After a month together—sweat, tears, late nights, shared meals—they had thought something had formed between them. A bond, at the very least.
Apparently, that bond hadn't meant much to everyone.
Kang Ian, however, wasn't entirely surprised.
He had long noticed that neither Akesh nor Adel liked him—at least, not as a leader. Back when they were placed on the same team, the tension had been immediate. They challenged every decision, questioned every arrangement, and pushed back at his leadership for reasons that never seemed particularly solid.
At first, it was complaints about line distribution.
They claimed they didn't have enough.
That it wasn't fair.
So Kang Ian adjusted.
But then the complaints changed.
Suddenly, they said their parts didn't stand out. That the song still favored him. That he was hoarding all the "good" moments.
It didn't matter what he did—it was never enough.
The arguments dragged on, wearing everyone down. Kang Ian and the other two teammates were visibly frustrated, but Akesh and Adel wouldn't relent. In the end, compromise became unavoidable.
Kang Ian gave up almost everything.
He left himself with only a short rap verse. Aside from harmonies and that single rap part, every highlight of the song went to the others—especially Akesh and Adel.
And still.
When the performance ended, and the evaluators lavished Kang Ian with praise—commendations for his stage presence, his control, his leadership—that was the breaking point.
That night, something shifted.
Kang Ian genuinely tried to talk to them. Tried to clear the air. To understand.
But Akesh and Adel either ignored him outright or walked past him as if he didn't exist. In training. In class. In the hallways. They avoided him like the plague.
The silence was louder than any argument.
Then came Wednesday night.
After classes, Akesh quietly packed his things and left without a word.
And by the next morning, Adel was gone too.
It was a sad sight to witness—two talented voices disappearing just as suddenly as they had risen.
But at the end of the day, only those who endure will remain.
And in a place like this, perseverance isn't optional—it's survival.
****
Thursday of the fourth evaluations week was supposed to be quiet.
Foca sat alone in his study, buried beneath paperwork, the soft glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. The island outside was unusually still, the kind of calm that usually came before something went terribly wrong.
The door swung open without a knock.
"Dude—have you seen this?"
Luca stood in the doorway, frown etched deep into his face, a tablet clutched tightly in one hand. Behind him was Tuesday, her expression just as grim, lips pressed into a thin line.
Foca looked up, already uneasy.
"Seen what?"
Luca didn't answer. He stepped forward and shoved the tablet into Foca's hands.
"Just read it," Tuesday said sharply, before collapsing onto the velvet couch across from Foca's desk. She crossed her arms, letting out a frustrated huff.
Foca frowned and lowered his gaze to the screen.
The headline stared back at him in bold, unforgiving letters.
"Former Trainees Accuse LEAVEN of Rigging and Favoritism."
"Oh, for the love of—" Foca muttered, already feeling a headache form.
"That's literally just the beginning," Luca cut in.
By then, he'd made his way to the mini bar. He poured himself a glass of whiskey.
Foca glanced up sharply.
Luca hated whiskey. Despised it, actually. He only drank it when he was truly pissed off. He once joked that whiskey was the final boss on his anger scale.
That alone told Foca how bad this was.
Swallowing, Foca continued reading.
And it only got worse.
The article detailed an interview with two former trainees—Akesh and Adel.
They accused LEAVEN, its staff, and its owners of favoritism and rigging. They spoke of "broken promises," claiming the show preached fairness and transparency while already having its chosen lineup in mind. According to them, the rest of the trainees were nothing more than expendable bodies—props meant to generate views.
Then came the names.
They singled out Kang Ian.
They alleged he was a guaranteed pick from the very start, citing the fact that he had been scouted by the company before LEAVEN even existed. To them, that alone was proof that the competition had been rigged long before the cameras started rolling.
They claimed they were never acknowledged for their efforts. That praise was reserved only for the evaluator favorites. That no matter how hard they worked, they were invisible.
And then they crossed another line.
They accused the evaluators—and even the island staff—of racism. Claimed they never felt safe during their stay.
They said they endured everything only because they believed the promise of a fair shot at debut. A promise they now called a lie.
They framed their interview as an act of courage—claiming they were risking their futures to "expose the truth." Warning the public that what aired on television was only a carefully edited lie. That manipulation and deception were rampant behind the scenes.
Toward the end, the interviewer asked if they could give examples of things hidden from the public.
Foca's fingers tightened around the tablet.
Akesh and Adel answered without hesitation.
They insinuated that certain trainees gained sympathy from the evaluators through their "tragic backstories." They named them openly—disgustingly.
Kang Ian, a rape victim.
Mika, struggling with an eating disorder.
Jordan, a severe victim of bullying for being on the spectrum—described by them with a slur so vile it made Foca's vision blur.
That was where he stopped.
Foca couldn't read another word.
His hands were shaking now, barely containing the fury coursing through him. His chest felt tight, like something feral was clawing its way up his throat.
Confidential information.
Protected records.
Things entrusted to mental health professionals. Things shared in vulnerability, in confidence—never meant for the public eye.
Even if some trainees had confided in each other, that still didn't give Akesh and Adel the right to weaponize that pain. To broadcast it to the world without consent. To turn trauma into ammunition.
Tuesday had gone deathly quiet.
Luca's grip tightened around his whiskey glass, knuckles white.
Foca stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor.
He had treated them with respect. With care. With patience.
And this was how they repaid it.
For the first time in years, Foca found himself seriously considering breaking a promise he had made to himself long ago—to never use his family's power to "fix" problems.
And when Foca said fix—
He didn't mean damage control.
He meant erasing.
.