"Now that we finally have everything cleared," Cat said, clapping her hands once, sharp and deliberate, "let us not waste any more time and get on with the show, shall we?"
The answer came instantly.
A wave of cheers—loud, eager, hungry—rolling through the theater like thunder.
"Well then," Cat continued, her lips curling into a knowing smile, "let us meet our first two new trainees."
A pause.
A beat too long.
Confused murmurs rippled through the audience.
"You heard that right," Cat added, eyes glinting. "Two. Please welcome—Yen and Zen!"
The LED screen behind her split down the middle with a low mechanical hum, light spilling forward like a curtain being torn open.
Two silhouettes emerged.
And the room stilled.
As the stage lights bloomed to full brilliance, the first figure stepped forward.
He was radiant.
Deep ebony skin caught the lights like polished onyx, glowing with a natural luster that made people in the front row audibly inhale. An acoustic guitar rested easily against his back, the strap cutting across a broad, athletic frame wrapped in a fitted black shirt and dark jeans. Every step he took was confident, grounded—like the stage already belonged to him.
A bright, easy smile curved his lips.
The kind that said: Yeah. I know I'm here. And I deserve it.
Behind him, almost half a step back, was the second figure.
Smaller. Quieter.
He moved like he was afraid the lights might burn him if he stepped too far forward, fingers clenched tightly in the hem of the young man in front of him's shirt—as if letting go would send him drifting away.
He was ethereal.
Alabaster skin, pale hair like spun silver, eyes a piercing, impossible blue—soft, but unnervingly deep, like they could see straight through a person. His white knitted turtleneck draped over a deceptively strong frame, pearl-toned trousers and shoes completing a look so pristine it almost felt unreal.
Like he'd wandered out of a dream.
Or a myth.
Together, they looked like a contradiction made flesh—sun and moon, fire and frost, dominance and delicacy.
The audience didn't know where to look.
When they reached center stage, Tuesday practically lit up.
"Hi!" she exclaimed, leaning forward. "Before anything else—can I just say both of y'all look stunnnnnning?!"
The confident one grinned wider and gave a small bow.
"Thank you."
The one behind him followed, bowing quickly, shyly—head dipping low like he wanted to disappear into the floor.
"Alright," Tuesday said, beaming. "Kindly introduce yourselves."
The man in front nodded.
"Hello everyone," he said clearly. "My name is Yen. And this—" his voice softened, almost instinctively, "—is my brother, Zen."
The room froze.
"Wait—hold up—HUH?!" Tuesday blurted, her brain visibly crashing. "Brother like… homie-bro?"
"Oh, no," Yen replied politely. "We're actual blood-related brothers. Twins, actually."
Silence.
Then—
"What?!"
"No way—"
"TWINS??"
Tuesday clutched her chest dramatically. "Y'ALL—don't play with me like that! I was so shook my wig almost flew off!"
She held up her lilac wig for emphasis, re-seating it as the entire theater burst into laughter.
"No, ma'am," Yen said, laughing now himself. "It's all true."
Behind him, Zen ducked his head fully behind Yen's shoulder, but his shoulders shook with quiet laughter.
Tuesday squinted. "You swear? The whole truth and not a damn lie?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well then," she said, leaning forward, eyes sparkling, "care to explain how the universe pulled this off?"
Yen took a breath.
A deep one.
"We're fraternal twins," he said. "With two different fathers."
The air left the room.
Eyes widened. Jaws dropped.
"That… is a real phenomenon," Yen continued. "It's called heteropaternal superfecundation. Our mom released two eggs in the same cycle. Each was fertilized by sperm from a different man, during separate encounters."
He paused.
His voice tightened—not weak, but restrained.
"Our mom grew up poor. She couldn't finish high school. To support her family, she worked as a waitress in an adult establishment." His jaw clenched. "And before anyone assumes—no. She was not a sex worker. She waited tables. Period."
A murmur of respect swept through the audience.
"Unfortunately," Yen continued, eyes darkening, "one asshole—my biological father—didn't care about that distinction. He sexually assaulted her. And the establishment did nothing because he was a regular who spent a lot of money."
Tuesday's face hardened.
"Our mom stayed because she had no choice," Yen said quietly. "Then… a miracle happened. A first-time customer came in, fell in love with her the moment he saw her. He treated her like a human being. They married. He's still with her today."
Yen glanced back slightly, just enough to feel Zen there.
"He's Zen's biological father. And the man who raised us both."
A breath.
"So yeah," Yen finished. "We're twins. And also half-brothers."
The theater was silent.
Not awkward.
Not uncomfortable.
Reverent.
And somewhere in that quiet, something shifted.
Not pity.
Not shock.
But respect.
The room didn't erupt.
It didn't laugh.
Didn't cheer.
Didn't even whisper.
It just… exhaled.
Everyone who heard Yen's story felt like they'd been yanked through a rollercoaster with no seatbelt—still dizzy, still trying to orient themselves after that last brutal drop.
"W–wow…" Luca finally breathed out, one hand running through his hair. "I'm not even joking when I say my director brain is already spiraling. That was… straight-up award-winning movie material." He winced slightly. "I mean that as the highest compliment possible."
Yen smiled faintly. "We'll take it."
"If you don't mind me asking," Luca continued, genuine curiosity softening his voice, "could you share your ethnicities?"
"Of course," Yen nodded. "Our mom is full Filipina—both of us are half Filipino. I'm half African, and my brother is half Romanian." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Our mom comes from an indigenous Filipino tribe with naturally darker skin. Combined with my biological father's complexion… well, I came out darker than most Filipinos and even some Africans."
A few quiet nods of understanding rippled through the room.
"As for Zen," Yen continued, glancing back briefly, "his father carries the albino gene. He's not albino himself—but the gene expressed in Zen."
A hush followed.
"…Honestly," Luca muttered again, shaking his head slowly, "I still can't wrap my head around all of that."
"You really are," Foca said softly, awe unmistakable in his tone, "a biological miracle. Both of you." His gaze was warm, steady. "And I think I speak for everyone here when I say how genuinely… pleasantly shocked we are."
Yen bowed slightly. Zen followed, smaller, slower—but no less sincere.
Then Foca's eyes shifted.
"But if you don't mind me asking," he said gently, "Yen, I've noticed you've been speaking the entire time. We haven't heard Zen speak yet."
The shift was subtle—but immediate.
Yen's shoulders tensed.
"Um…" he started, then steadied himself. "Zen has a condition called selective mutism. It developed after… certain traumatic events during our childhood."
The room seemed to draw closer.
"Is it okay to ask what happened?" Tuesday asked, her voice careful—curious, but laced with unmistakable empathy.
Yen let out a heavy breath.
Not dramatic.
Not performative.
The kind of breath that carried weight.
He turned slightly, lowering himself just enough to be at Zen's level, silently asking permission with his eyes.
Zen hesitated for a fraction of a second.
Then he cupped his hand and leaned in, whispering something only Yen could hear.
Yen swallowed.
"You sure?" he murmured back.
Zen nodded.
A small, soft smile curved his lips—not fearless, but resolute.
Yen straightened slowly.
And just like that, the room knew.
Whatever was coming next wasn't going to be easy.
But it was going to be real.