In the busy heart of Gangnam, Seoul, stood a tall building housing the well-known agency PLAIN Entertainment. The company was mostly famous for managing successful solo artists, so people were surprised when PLAIN announced an open audition. What the public didn't know was that behind the scenes, the agency was secretly preparing to launch a group.
Once the audition was announced, countless people rushed to send in their videos. From bedrooms and dance studios to practice rooms and living rooms, hopeful trainees recorded themselves singing, rapping, and dancing, all chasing the same chance to be noticed. One of those people was Dokgo Chase. Known in America for the underground and SoundCloud rap scenes, Chase, at only sixteen years old, had already built a name for himself within certain communities. While he wasn't famous to the public, his music had quietly gained attention among listeners who knew where to look.
Chase (Born Chase Snyder) was born in Korea to a Korean mother and an American father stationed there as a U.S. soldier. His earliest memories were fragments of a cramped apartment in Gangnam, back when the neighborhood was still transforming into the glittering district it would become. He remembered the smell of his grandmother's kimchi jjigae, the sound of his mother singing old trot songs while folding laundry, and the way his father's boots sounded heavy on the tile floor when he came home late at night.
His father, Staff Sergeant Marcus Snyder, was a towering presence in those early years—not just physically, but in the way he filled a room with his energy. Marcus had met Chase's mother, Dokgo Minji, at a small bar near the base where she worked part-time while studying English literature. Their relationship had been a whirlwind, complicated by language barriers and cultural differences, but they'd made it work through sheer determination and what Marcus called "stubborn love."
Chase was only three when the conversation happened that would change everything.
"Minji, we need to talk about the orders," Marcus had said one evening, his voice low as Chase played with toy cars on the living room floor.
"I know," his mother replied in careful English, her accent thick but her words deliberate. "You go to America base."
"Not just me. All of us." Marcus knelt down beside her at the kitchen table. "I want you and Chase to come with me. Oakland—it's near San Francisco. Good schools, good community. I can give you both a better life there."
"My family is here," Minji said quietly, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.
"I know. And I'm not saying it's easy. But Chase deserves to grow up somewhere he won't be looked at differently because his dad's American. Somewhere he can just be a kid."
Chase didn't understand the weight of that conversation then, but he remembered his mother crying that night, and his grandmother holding her in the kitchen while speaking rapid Korean he couldn't quite follow.
Three months later, when Chase was seven months old, they moved to Oakland.
Growing up in Oakland was like being dropped into a completely different world. The apartment they moved into was in a neighborhood where music poured from every direction: cars blasting hyphy beats, street performers on corners, and the distant sound of someone practicing saxophone through an open window. It was a city rich in history, culture, and music, where sound was omnipresent. For Chase, music wasn't just something to listen to; it was a way of life.
His father adapted to civilian life by working as a mechanic, his hands always stained with grease, but his spirit never dimmed. Marcus had a ritual: every Saturday morning, he'd blast music while working on cars in their small garage. One week it would be Nirvana, the next it would be Queen, then maybe some Rage Against the Machine. He'd sing along terribly, off-key and loud, until Chase's mother would lean out the window and yell at him to keep it down.
"Chase! Get over here!" Marcus called one Saturday when Chase was six. The boy ran over, curious, to find his father holding up a wrench like a microphone. "You know what this is?"
"A wrench?"
"Wrong. It's Freddie Mercury's microphone." Marcus grinned and started belting out "Bohemian Rhapsody," complete with exaggerated gestures. Chase laughed so hard he nearly fell over.
"Dad, you sound terrible!"
"Terrible? I sound amazing!" Marcus scooped him up and spun him around. "Music isn't about sounding perfect, kiddo. It's about feeling it. You feel it?"
Chase nodded, even though he wasn't entirely sure what his father meant.
But he would learn.
The real turning point came when Chase was eight. He was walking home from school when he heard it—a bass line so heavy it seemed to shake the sidewalk beneath his feet. He followed the sound to a group of older kids gathered around a car, the trunk open, speakers visible. The rapper's voice cut through everything else, raw and unfiltered.
"Yo, little man, you like Pac?" one of the teenagers asked, noticing Chase staring.
"Who?"
The group erupted in exaggerated disbelief. "Who? Man, we gotta educate you right now."
They played "California Love," then "Changes," then "Dear Mama." Chase stood there, transfixed, as 2Pac's words painted pictures in his mind—stories of struggle, of love, of survival. It was different from his father's rock music, but somehow it carried the same raw honesty.
"That's what real rap is," the teenager explained, crouching down to Chase's level. "It's about telling your truth, you know? Not just rhyming words, but saying something that matters."
Chase went home that day and immediately asked his mother if they could get a 2Pac CD. She'd been hesitant—he was only eight, after all—but Marcus had overheard.
"Let him listen," Marcus said that evening, pulling out an old CD player from a box in the garage. "Kid's gotta learn about good music somehow. Besides, Pac's a poet. He'll learn more from those lyrics than he will from half his schoolwork."
"Marcus, he's eight," Minji protested.
"And I was listening to punk rock at eight. He'll be fine."
That night, Chase lay in bed with headphones on, listening to "Keep Ya Head Up" on repeat. He didn't understand every word, but he understood the feeling. The way 2Pac's voice carried pain and hope at the same time. The way the words seemed to matter more than just sounding good.
He was hooked.
By the time Chase was ten, he'd discovered a whole world of hip-hop. Del the Funky Homosapien became another favorite—his playful wordplay and unique flow showed Chase that rap could be fun and creative, not just serious. He'd spend hours in his room, rewinding tracks, trying to memorize verses, stumbling over words until he got them right.
His father noticed the obsession.
"You really love this stuff, huh?" Marcus asked one afternoon, finding Chase scribbling lyrics in a notebook.
"Yeah. I want to try making my own."
Marcus sat down on the edge of Chase's bed, picking up the notebook. The lyrics were clumsy, childish rhymes about school and video games, but there was something there—a spark of genuine effort.
"You know what separates good rappers from great ones?" Marcus asked.
Chase shook his head.
"Great ones aren't afraid to be honest. They don't just say what sounds cool. They say what's real, even when it's hard." Marcus handed the notebook back. "So if you're gonna do this, don't just copy what you hear. Find your own voice. Tell your own story."
"But I'm just a kid. I don't have a story."
Marcus laughed, ruffling Chase's hair. "Everyone's got a story, kiddo. You're a Korean-American kid growing up in Oakland with a white dad who can't sing and a mom who makes the best kimchi in California. That's a story. You just gotta figure out how to tell it."
That conversation stuck with Chase. He started writing more seriously, filling notebooks with observations about his life, his neighborhood, the things he saw and felt. Most of it was still rough, still amateur, but he was learning.
When Chase turned thirteen, everything shifted again. He was at a community center when he saw a group of kids breakdancing in the corner, their bodies moving in ways that seemed to defy physics. The way they hit the beat, the way they froze mid-movement, the sheer athleticism of it all—Chase was mesmerized.
"You wanna learn?" one of the dancers asked, noticing Chase watching.
"I don't know if I can do that."
"Nobody knows until they try. Come on."
That first session was humbling. Chase fell more times than he could count, his body refusing to cooperate with what his mind wanted it to do. But there was something addictive about it—the challenge, the way it felt when he finally landed a move he'd been practicing for hours.
He started going to the community center every day after school. The older dancers took him under their wing, teaching him basics, correcting his form, and pushing him to try harder moves. And Chase noticed something: the same rhythm that drove his rapping drove his dancing. They were connected, two sides of the same coin.
"Yo, Chase, you rap?" one of the dancers, a guy named Dre, asked one day during a break.
"Yeah, a little."
"Let's hear it."
Chase hesitated, then started freestyling over the beat playing from someone's phone. His flow was still developing, but there was potential there—a natural sense of rhythm, a confidence in his delivery.
"Damn, little man's got bars!" Dre laughed, dapping him up. "You should put that online. SoundCloud or something."
"You think people would actually listen?"
"Only one way to find out."
That night, Chase created a SoundCloud account. He didn't have professional equipment—just his phone, a cheap microphone his dad had bought him for his birthday, and free recording software he'd downloaded. His first upload was rough, the mixing amateur, but he hit post anyway.
The track got twelve plays in the first week. Then thirty. Then a hundred.
People started leaving comments: "Who is this?" "This kid's got potential." "Where can I hear more?"
Chase was hooked on a new kind of high—the validation of strangers who connected with his music.
"Dad, people are actually listening to my music," Chase said one evening, showing Marcus his SoundCloud stats on his phone.
Marcus looked at the numbers, then at his son's face, lit up with pride and excitement. "That's amazing, Chase. I'm proud of you."
"Do you think I could actually do this? Like, for real?"
Marcus was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "I think you can do anything you set your mind to. But I also want you to be realistic. The music industry is tough. Really tough. Most people don't make it."
"But some do."
"Some do," Marcus agreed. "And if you want to be one of them, you've gotta work harder than everyone else. You've gotta be willing to fail, to get rejected, to keep going even when it feels impossible." He put a hand on Chase's shoulder. "But yeah, kiddo. I think you've got what it takes. Just promise me you'll finish school first."
"I promise."
"And promise me you'll always stay true to yourself. Don't let anyone change who you are or what you want to say."
"I promise."
Marcus pulled him into a hug. "Then I've got your back. Always."
Chase was fifteen when he got the news that shattered his world.
He'd been at the community center, practicing a new routine, when his phone rang. His mother's voice on the other end was broken, barely coherent through the sobs.
"Chase, you need to come home. Now."
The walk home felt like it took hours, even though it was only ten minutes. When he opened the door, he found his mother on the couch, surrounded by his grandmother and aunt, who had flown in from Korea years ago. Two military officers stood awkwardly near the door, their faces grave.
"We regret to inform you that Staff Sergeant Marcus Snyder was killed in action..."
The rest of the words blurred together. Something about an IED. Something about honor and service and sacrifice. Chase stood there, frozen, unable to process what he was hearing.
His father was gone.
The man who'd taught him about music, who'd encouraged his dreams, who'd promised to always have his back—gone.
The funeral was a blur. The folded flag, the gun salute, the endless stream of people offering condolences that meant nothing. Chase stood there in his ill-fitting suit, numb to everything.
It was his mother who finally broke through the fog.
"Chase, we need to talk about what happens next," Minji said one evening, a few weeks after the funeral. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face drawn with grief, but there was a determination in her voice.
"What do you mean?"
"I want to move back to Korea. To be closer to family. I can't... I can't do this alone here."
"But this is home," Chase protested, even though the words felt hollow. Nothing felt like home anymore without his father.
"I know. And I know it's not fair to ask you to leave everything behind. But I need my family right now. We both do."
Chase thought about Oakland—the community center, his friends, the life he'd built. But he also thought about his mother, about how she'd given up everything to move here with his father, about how alone she must feel.
"Okay," he said quietly. "We'll go."
The transition back to Korea was jarring. At fifteen, Chase was old enough to remember fragments of his early childhood, but not enough to feel truly connected to the country. He'd kept up his Korean through conversations with his mother and grandmother, so the language wasn't the issue. It was everything else—the culture, the expectations, the way people looked at him like he didn't quite fit.
He threw himself into music as an escape. His SoundCloud following had grown to a few thousand by then, and he kept uploading tracks, kept refining his sound. But something was missing. He felt directionless, lost.
Then one day, he saw a music show on TV. Idols performing with perfect synchronization, their energy electric, the crowd's response deafening. And something clicked.
"Mom, I want to audition to be an idol," Chase announced one evening.
Minji looked up from her book, surprised. "An idol? Chase, that's... that's very different from what you've been doing."
"I know. But I want to perform. I want to be on stage. And I think I could do it. I can rap, I can dance, I've been training for years."
"It's incredibly competitive. And difficult. The training system is very strict."
"I know. But I want to try. Dad always said I should go after what I want."
At the mention of Marcus, Minji's expression softened. "He did say that, didn't he?" She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. If this is what you want, I'll support you. But you have to promise me you'll give it everything you have."
"I promise."
Chase's first audition was at HYBE when he was fifteen. He'd prepared for weeks, perfecting his routine, choosing the right song. When he walked into the audition room, his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.
But the moment the music started, everything else fell away. He rapped, he danced, he poured every ounce of himself into that performance.
He passed.
The year he spent as a HYBE trainee was intense. The training schedule was brutal—hours of vocal lessons, dance practice, language classes, and fitness training. But Chase thrived on it. For the first time since his father's death, he felt like he had a purpose.
Then came the announcement: the trainee group he belonged to was being disbanded. Budget cuts, they said. Creative differences. It didn't matter what the reason was—the result was the same. His contract was terminated.
Chase felt that familiar numbness creeping back in, the same feeling he'd had at his father's funeral. Like everything he worked for had been ripped away.
But then he saw the announcement for PLAIN Entertainment's open audition.
"One more try," he told himself. "Dad would want me to try one more time."
He recorded his audition video with everything he had, showcasing his rapping, his dancing, and his vocals. When the acceptance letter arrived a week later, his mother found it in the mail and immediately called him downstairs.
"Chase! You got in!"
Standing in the kitchen, holding that letter, Chase felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.
"I'm going to make it this time," he said, more to himself than to his mother. "I have to."
Now, standing on the mini stage at PLAIN Entertainment, Chase faced the panel of judges, ready to prove that every struggle, every loss, every moment of doubt had led him to exactly where he needed to be.
The waiting room had been tense. Chase had arrived early, watching as other hopefuls filtered in—some confident, others visibly nervous. A girl in the corner had been practicing vocal runs under her breath. Two guys near the window were reviewing choreography on their phones. Everyone was lost in their own world of preparation and anxiety.
Chase had found a spot against the wall and closed his eyes, running through his performance in his mind. He thought about his father, about that conversation they'd had about finding his own voice. He thought about the year at HYBE that had ended in disappointment. This was his second chance. He couldn't waste it.
"Dokgo Chase?" A staff member had called his name, and the room's energy shifted as everyone looked up, watching him stand.
"That's me."
"You're up. Follow me."
The walk down the corridor felt endless. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained calm. He'd learned to channel nerves into energy, to let the anxiety fuel his performance rather than hinder it.
Now, standing center stage, he faced the panel of three judges seated behind a long table. The main judge sat in the middle—Daniel Seo, CEO of PLAIN Entertainment, whose reputation for discovering raw talent was legendary. To his left was a woman Chase recognized as a former idol, now a vocal coach. To his right, a choreographer whose work he'd studied countless times.
The room was smaller than he'd expected, more intimate. A camera was set up in the corner, recording everything. The lighting was bright, almost harsh, making it impossible to see much beyond the judges' table.
Daniel Seo lifted his gaze and studied Chase for a long moment before speaking, his expression unreadable. "Please introduce yourself and the song you'll be covering."
Chase felt a small smirk tug at his lips—not from arrogance, but from confidence earned through years of practice. "Dokgo Chase. I'll be rapping Kendrick Lamar's *DNA*," he said, his voice steady and clear.
The judges exchanged glances. The choreographer leaned forward slightly, interest piqued. Kendrick wasn't a common choice for idol auditions.
Daniel Seo gave a small nod. "Alright. Begin when you're ready."
Chase took a breath, centering himself. He thought about Oakland, about the first time he'd heard 2Pac, about his father's words: *Find your own voice. Tell your own story.*
This was his story.
Standing at the center of the room, Chase held the mic calmly. His feet were set shoulder-width apart, head lowered, jaw relaxed as he grounded himself before starting. The judges watched, waiting.
In an instant, his voice cut through the room, clear and steady. "I got, I got, I got." He moved fast, the mic firm in his hand as his body snapped into motion.
Then the beat dropped.
*Loyalty, got royalty inside my DNA
Cocaine quarter piece, got war and peace inside my DNA
I got power, poison, pain, and joy inside my DNA
I got hustle, though, ambition flow inside my DNA
I was born like this, since one like this, immaculate conception
I transform like this, perform like this, was Yeshua new weapon
I don't contemplate, I meditate, then off your head
This that put-the-kids-to-bed
As the familiar words poured from him, Chase's body moved instinctively with the bass. Every step, every shift of his weight hits the rhythm. His hands became the focus, cutting through the air, snapping into place, then pulling back just as fast.
This that I got, I got, I got, I got—
Realness, I just kill it' cause it's in my DNA
I got millions, I got riches buildin' in my DNA
I got dark, I got evil that rot inside my DNA
I got off, I got troublesome heart inside my DNA*
Chase's mind was split between the performance and his internal monologue. Don't rush it. Feel every word. Make them believe it. He could feel the judges' eyes on him, analyzing every movement, every breath. He pushed the awareness aside and dove deeper into the performance.
*I just win again, then win again, like Wimbledon, I serve
Yeah, that's him again, the sound that engine in is like a bird
You see fireworks and Corvette tire skrrt the boulevard
I know how you work, I know just who you are
See, you's a, you's a, you's a—
His tone shifted softer now, slower, and noticeably different from the original. It felt intentional, as if he were testing the range of his voice, seeing how far he could stretch it without breaking the rhythm. His movements are also slowed, but he still keeps in beat with sharp gestures.
Snitch, your hormones prolly switch inside your DNA
Problem is, all that sucker shit inside your DNA
Daddy prolly snitched, heritage inside your DNA
Backbone don't exist, born outside a jellyfish, I gauge*
The word "daddy" hit Chase differently than it had in practice. He thought about his father, about the heritage he'd left behind—not of snitching or weakness, but of strength and integrity. He channeled that into his delivery, adding a layer of personal meaning that the judges couldn't know but could feel.
See, my pedigree most definitely don't tolerate the front
Crap I've been through prolly offend you, this is Paula's oldest son
I know murder, conviction, burners, boosters, burglars, ballers, dead
Redemption, scholars, fathers dead with kids
And I wish I was fed forgiveness
The vocal coach's expression softened. There was something raw in his delivery, something that suggested these weren't just lyrics he was reciting—they were words he understood.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, soldier's DNA
Chase's voice carried a weight on those words that made Daniel Seo's pen pause mid-note.
*Born inside the beast, my expertise checked out in second grade
When I was nine, on sale motel, we didn't have nowhere to stay
At twenty-nine, I've done so well, hit cartwheel in my estate
And I'm gon' shine like I'm supposed to, antisocial extrovert
And excellent mean the extra work
And absentness what the stuff you heard
And pessimists never struck my nerve
And Nazareth gonna plead his case
The reason my power's here on Earth
Salute the truth, when the prophet say
Then his tone shifted again, snapping back into his fast-paced style. His movements picked up with it, sharp and confident, matching the beat as the energy in the room rose once more.
I-I got loyalty, got royalty inside my DNA
I live a better life, I'm rollin' several dice, screw your life
I-I got loyalty, got royalty inside my DNA
I live a be-, screw your life
Five, four, three, two, one
This is my heritage, all I'm inheritin'
Money and power, the mecca of marriages
Again, everything slowed this time, blending seamlessly with the ad-libs in the background. His movements came to a complete stop as he rapped, body held perfectly still. Not even his hands moved.
Tell me somethin'
You can't tell me nothin'
I'd rather die than to listen to you
My DNA not for imitation
Your DNA an abomination
This how it is when you in the Matrix
Dodgin' bullets, reapin' what you sow
And stackin' up the footage, livin' on the go
And sleepin' in a villa
Sippin' from a Grammy, walkin' in the buildin'
Diamond in the ceilin', marble on the floors
Beach inside the window, peekin' out the window
Baby in the pool, godfather goals
Only Lord knows I've been goin' hammer
Dodgin' paparazzi, freakin' through the cameras
Eat at Four Daughters, Brock wearin' sandals
Yoga on a Monday, stretchin' to Nirvana*
The mention of Nirvana made Chase think of his father again, of those Saturday mornings in the garage. He let that memory fuel the next lines, adding an edge of nostalgia and pain.
*Watchin' all the snakes, curvin' all the fakes
Phone never on, I don't conversate
I don't compromise, I just penetrate
Sex, money, murder, these are the breaks
These are the times, level number nine
Look up in the sky, ten is on the way
Sentence on the way, killings on the way
I got winners on the way
You ain't it without a body on your belt
You ain't it without a ticket on your plate
You ain't sick enough to pull it on yourself
You ain't rich enough to hit the lot and skate
Tell me when destruction gonna be my fate
Gonna be your fate, gonna be our faith
Peace to the world, let it rotate
Sex, money, murder, our DNA
When the beat shifted, Chase shifted with it. His movements became faster and wider, taking over the entire stage as he moved from one side to the other. His rap grew more aggressive, too, his voice filling the space just as much as his presence did. He suddenly moves back to the center as the beat fades.
Then, as the room fell completely silent, he bowed.
Applause filled the room as Chase lifted his eyes, looking out toward the judges. The clapping slowly died down, and the main judge finally spoke.
The main judge leaned forward slightly. "I think I speak for all of us when I say this: you blew us away. For a sixteen-year-old, you have natural stage presence and a commanding voice. For a moment, it honestly felt like Kendrick himself was standing right there in front of us." Once again, applause echoed through the room.
"Thank you!" Chase said, taking another bow, this one deeper and more respectful.
Daniel Seo continued, his tone becoming more analytical. "We really liked how you changed your vocal pattern during the slower parts of the song. You didn't just slow your voice—you slowed your body too, matching the beat perfectly. That shows an understanding of performance as a complete package, not just individual elements." He glanced at his fellow judges, who both nodded. "Usually, we have at least some criticism to offer. Maybe pitch issues, or timing problems, or energy management. But this performance..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "We honestly can't say it was flawed. It was different from the original, yes, but that's what made it yours. You took Kendrick's DNA and filtered it through your own."
Chase felt his chest tighten with emotion. He thought about his father, about how proud he would have been to hear those words. He bowed again, not trusting himself to speak.
The judge's voice turned more formal, and the room's atmosphere shifted. "As an executive decision—one that I, Daniel Seo, CEO of PLAIN Entertainment, don't make lightly—I'd like to say that you've earned a spot here." The words rang in Chase's ears, and a grin slowly spread across his lips, pride swelling in his chest. "This doesn't usually happen. Normally, it takes multiple evaluations, callback rounds, and deliberation periods. But what I saw just now is more than enough to justify your place in our future projects."
Chase's mind was racing. I did it. I actually did it. Dad, I did it.
"However..." Daniel Seo's voice lingered in the air for a few long seconds, and Chase's smile faltered slightly.
The CEO's expression became more serious. "We want to see how well you work in a group. Your individual skills are undeniable, but idol work requires chemistry, cooperation, and the ability to blend your talents with others. So prepare yourself for that evaluation. Don't worry, you'll meet your group before any evaluations begin. We want you to have time to build that connection naturally."
Another pause. The vocal coach spoke up. "And Chase? Don't lose what makes you unique. Many trainees try to smooth their edges to fit in. Don't do that. Your edge is your strength."
"Good job today," Daniel Seo concluded. "Bring this energy with you in future evaluations. You're allowed to head back now."
With a final bow, Chase started to head toward the door, his legs feeling slightly unsteady from the adrenaline crash. At the door, the voice of the judge rang out one final time.
"And Chase? Good luck."
Chase turned back, meeting Daniel Seo's eyes. The CEO gave him a small nod—not just professional courtesy, but genuine respect.
"Thank you," Chase said, his voice thick with emotion. "I won't let you down."
With that, he left the room.
After exiting the room, Chase entered an empty corridor. The door closed behind him with a click, silencing the low conversations inside, though he didn't need to hear them to understand what was being discussed. He could still feel the weight of their attention lingering on him, but rather than weakening him, it heightened his resolve.
He leaned against the wall for a moment, letting out a long breath. His hands were shaking slightly, not from nerves, but from the sheer intensity of what had just happened. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.
Dad, I wish you could have seen that, he thought, closing his eyes briefly. I think you would have been proud.
The silence was broken by the familiar sounds of movement and voices from a nearby room. This was the common area where trainees warmed up and practiced before their evaluations. With sweat still on his forehead and that determined expression, he headed toward the room.
As he stepped inside, "Closer" by The Chainsmokers played through the room's speakers. His eyes moved across the space, taking in several trainees dancing, stretching, or quietly running through their own routines. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and the faint chemical scent of cleaning products from the recently mopped floors. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that familiar harsh white glow that made everyone look slightly washed out. It was busy but focused, the kind of controlled chaos he was used to. Still, only one person truly caught his attention.
Near the back of the room stood a young girl with headphones on, completely locked into her own world. She wasn't moving to the song playing aloud. Instead, she danced to something else entirely, which looked like LE SSERAFIM's "Eve, Psyche & The Bluebeard's Wife."
She ran through a solo performance of Yunjin's parts, sharp, confident, every move clean and intentional. Her ponytail whipped around with each turn, and even from across the room, Chase could see the concentration etched into her features. As she danced, Chase's eyes never left her. He watched the way she hit each move with precision, how naturally she flowed through the choreography, her sneakers squeaking softly against the practice room floor with each pivot. What impressed him most was how perfect it all looked, especially knowing how new the choreography was. She couldn't have been practicing it for more than a few weeks at most.
As her movements began to slow, he approached, weaving between two other trainees stretching near the mirrors.
Chase waved a hand to get her attention, but she stayed locked in her own world. Her breathing was heavy, eyes closed as she moved through the last counts, completely unaware of his presence. Standing just a few feet away, Chase could only wait, awkwardly frozen in front of her. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly very aware of how weird this probably looked just standing there staring at someone who had no idea he was there. Should he tap her shoulder? No, that might scare her even more. Maybe just wait? Yeah, waiting was probably the safest option.
Then the music in her headphones faded. She slowed to a stop, took a breath, and opened her eyes.
"Ahhhhh!"
She jumped back in pure panic, her feet tangling as she stumbled and crashed to the floor, arms flailing as the room seemed to freeze for a split second. Her headphones slipped off one ear, dangling awkwardly. Almost immediately, Chase rushed forward to help her up, panic flashing across his face.
"Oh... oh crap, I'm so sorry, are you? I didn't mean to," he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other as he crouched down beside her, hands hovering uncertainly like he wasn't sure if he should help her up or give her space. His face flushed hot with embarrassment.
She shook her head quickly, trying to play it off like it was no big deal, but the embarrassment was etched across her face in a deep flush that crept from her cheeks to her ears. "Y-yeah, I'm fine," she stammered, her voice a little too high-pitched as she dusted off her knees and straightened her oversized practice shirt. The shirt had some English text on it that was probably supposed to say something meaningful, but just read like word salad, the kind of thing you'd find at a cheap clothing store.
Her eyes darted around the room, catching the lingering stares from the other trainees. A couple of girls near the mirror were whispering to each other, and a guy stretching by the barre was trying not to laugh. The humiliation burned hotter than the ache in her tailbone. As soon as she looked around, Chase noticed her discomfort and instinctively shifted his stance, attempting to block the stares by positioning his broader frame between her and the prying eyes.
"Here, let's, let me help you up," Chase said, his voice softer now but still laced with that same earnest concern as he extended his hand more firmly this time, palm up and steady. He kept his body angled strategically, still guarding her from the prying stares, his own embarrassment momentarily forgotten in his need to fix what he'd caused.
She hesitated for a split second, her hand hovering before clasping his. His grip was warm, reassuring, with just enough strength to pull her to her feet without making it feel awkward or overbearing. As she rose, she felt the slight ache in her tailbone from the fall and winced internally, already dreading the bruise that would probably show up tomorrow.
"Thanks," she muttered, her voice steadier now as she adjusted her headphones around her neck. Chase didn't let go immediately, giving her a quick once-over to make sure she was balanced, his protective posture unwavering until he was certain the attention had fully shifted elsewhere. The other trainees were gradually returning to their own business, the moment already fading into background noise.
Once she was upright, he stepped back just enough to give her room, but not so far that he abandoned the shield entirely. "No problem. I mean, least I could do after, like... causing it," he added with a self-deprecating chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit that betrayed his own nerves beneath the confident exterior. "You good? For real this time? 'Cause I'm kinda freaking out a little."
"Yeah, I'm fine. My butt hurts, though," she admitted, rubbing the spot with a wince, her voice laced with forced casualness and a spark of humor to mask the humiliation. She glanced down at the floor as if it had personally betrayed her.
"Oh... uh... " Chase's face went red again, and he looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in the wall. "Right. Yeah. Sorry. Again."
She let out a small laugh despite herself, some of the tension breaking. "Thanks for helping, I guess. I'm Kang Seoyun," she said, her voice steadying as the initial shock wore off, though a faint blush still lingered on her cheeks. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she began to notice Chase's features: his hair slightly damp with sweat, the earnest concern still lingering in his eyes, the fact that he was actually kind of tall up close.
"Oh yeah, no problem, Seoyun," he said quickly, a little sheepish but completely sincere. He met her eyes for a second, then looked away, then back again. "Um, actually, before I, like... scared you and everything, I just wanted to say the way you danced was really good. Like, really good. It was kinda hard not to watch." He paused, realizing how that sounded. "Not in a weird way! Just you know it was good. Really... good." He winced at himself. "Oh, and I didn't say my name. I'm Dokgo Chase."
Seoyun's expression shifted slightly, something guarded sliding into place behind her eyes even as she maintained a polite smile. "Nice to meet you," she said as she bowed slightly, the movement polite but measured. "I'm guessing we're both trainees?" she added, her tone curious but careful, like she was still deciding whether this guy was genuine or just another trainee trying to network. "I mean-"
"Can Jin-ah Chaewon come to the evaluation room?" The intercom crackled to life, the sudden announcement cutting straight through Seoyun's words. Her mouth closed mid-sentence as she flinched slightly, instinctively turning her head toward the speaker mounted near the ceiling. The voice was flat, administrative, the kind that had probably made the same announcement a hundred times that day.
"Still not me..." Seoyun muttered under her breath, the words trailing off as her shoulders relaxed just a little. As she spoke, she turned away from the center of the room and headed toward the benches along the wall, where her things were neatly piled: a worn backpack with a couple of keychains dangling from the zipper, a water bottle covered in stickers, and a small towel draped over the edge.
"How long've you been waiting?" Chase asked, his voice casual but edged with curiosity as he followed her toward the benches. He glanced briefly toward the evaluation rooms before looking back at her. "I just got done with mine."
"Couple hours," she said with a small shrug, settling onto the edge of the bench. She grabbed her water bottle and took a sip. "But like, whatever." A quiet, self-deprecating laugh slipped out as she looked away for a moment, fiddling with the strap of her bag. Her voice dropped lower, almost like she was talking to herself. "Probably won't do that well anyway."
"Wait—what?" Chase said, shaking his head as he sat down beside her, leaving space between them. "No, that's—" He stopped, trying to find the words. "Like, from what I saw? You're really good. I'm serious."
"You don't even know me," Seoyun said, but her voice wavered slightly. She set her water bottle down and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "I barely got here, and my audition was kind of a disaster." She glanced at him, trying to figure out if he meant it or was just being nice. Everyone was always just being nice.
"But you're here," Chase said, leaning forward a little. His face was open, earnest in that way that made him look exactly sixteen. "You made it this far, so-" He paused, then his whole expression shifted into sudden determination. "With my support, you'll definitely make it."
He stuck out a thumbs-up, grinning so wide his eyes crinkled, the gesture so dorky and sincere it was almost painful.
She stared at him for a second, then looked away fast, heat flooding her cheeks. A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it. "Oh my god, please don't-" She buried her face against her knees. "Don't ever do that again. I'm literally begging."
"Do what?" His voice had gone completely flat.
Seoyun looked up and froze. The goofy grin was gone. His face was serious now, focused, like he'd flipped a switch. He was staring at her with this intense, unreadable expression that made her brain short-circuit.
"What the...?" She blinked, genuinely confused. "Never mind. I already hate you." She crossed her arms and looked away, but her mouth was twitching. She was trying so hard not to smile.
The serious face cracked instantly. That stupid grin came back, and Seoyun broke, laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth with her hand. Her shoulders shook. "S-stop, you're such a jerk-"
Chase was laughing too now, the sound warm and genuine. "Okay, okay, I'll stop," he said, holding up his hands in surrender, still grinning like an idiot.
Seoyun wiped at her eyes, catching her breath. "You're so annoying." But there was no edge to it. Her face was flushed pink, and she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, glancing at him sideways. "Do you do this to everyone, or am I just lucky?"
"Oh, you're definitely special," Chase said, leaning back against the wall, looking way too pleased with himself. "Most people just walk away."
"Smart people," Seoyun shot back, but she was still smiling. She shifted her weight, her sneakers squeaking against the floor. "I should've walked away the second you started talking."
"But you didn't." He tilted his head, that playful look back on his face. "So either you think I'm funny or you're just as weird as me."
Seoyun opened her mouth, closed it, then frowned. "I... okay, fine. Maybe a little funny. Like, barely." She held up her fingers, pinched together. "This much."
"I'll take it," Chase said, grinning wider. He pushed off the wall and stepped closer, close enough that she had to look up slightly. "That's more than I usually get."
She rolled her eyes, but something flipped in her chest that she refused to think about. "Who said there's gonna be a next time?"
"You did. Just now. By not leaving."
"That's not—" Seoyun huffed, crossing her arms tighter. "You're twisting my words."
"Am I though?" His grin softened into something more real, his eyes warm and steady. "Look, I know today sucked. But you made it through. And honestly? You seem cool. I wouldn't mind hanging out again."
Seoyun felt her face heat up again and quickly looked down at her shoes. "You don't even know me."
"Not yet," he said simply. "But I want to."
Silence. The kind that felt heavy. Seoyun's fingers twisted the hem of her sleeve, pulling at the fabric. She could feel him watching her, patient, like he had all the time in the world. It made her chest feel tight.
"You're really weird," she finally said, her voice quieter now.
"Yeah, I know."
She looked up at him, studying his face, the easy smile, the messy hair, how comfortable he seemed. It was kind of annoying, actually. How was he so relaxed?
"Okay," she said before she could overthink it. "Maybe we can hang out again. If you're not too annoying."
Chase's face lit up as she had just told him he won something. "I'll try to keep it to a minimum. No promises, though."
"Great," Seoyun said dryly, but she was smiling again, and this time she didn't hide it.
They stood there for another moment, the hallway quiet except for the distant hum of the building. Seoyun felt lighter somehow, like the weight she'd been carrying had lifted just a little. It was nice. Weird, but nice.
Then the intercom crackled to life, sharp static cutting through the air.
"Choi Seoyun to Evaluation Room. Choi Seoyun, Evaluation Room."
The voice was calm, professional, and completely indifferent to the fact that it had just shattered the moment into a thousand pieces.
Seoyun's stomach dropped. The lightness vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, creeping dread that started in her chest and spread outward. Her hands went clammy, and she felt her breath hitch.
"Oh," she said, her voice small. "That's… that's me."
Chase's expression shifted immediately, the playful grin fading into something more serious. "Hey," he said gently, stepping a little closer. "You okay?"
Seoyun nodded, but it was automatic, not convincing. Her fingers twisted harder into her sleeve. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I just… I have to go."
"You've got this," Chase said, his voice steady and sure. "Seriously. You're gonna walk in there and crush it."
She wanted to believe him. She really did. But her legs felt like jelly, and her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. "What if I mess up?"
"You won't," he said, and something in his voice made her look up. Not the easy confidence from before, but something quieter, more real. "But like... even if you do? It's literally not the end. You're way tougher than you think you are."
Seoyun studied his face, looking for the joke, the part where he'd laugh and admit he was just being nice. But his eyes were serious, almost too serious for someone she'd just met. Like he actually meant it.
"Okay," she whispered, barely audible. She sucked in a breath that didn't quite fill her lungs and forced her feet to move. One step. Then another. She made it three steps before stopping, glancing back. "Thanks. For being... I don't know. Weird, I guess."
Chase's grin came back, lopsided and genuine. "Anytime. Now go... you're gonna be late."
Seoyun managed the smallest smile, more of a nervous twitch of her lips, before turning away. Her footsteps sounded too loud in her own ears, each one carrying her closer to something she wasn't sure she was ready for. She didn't look back again, but somehow she knew he was still watching until she disappeared around the corner.
---
The door sealed behind her with a pneumatic hiss, and Chase's gaze peeled away from the empty hallway, back into the fluorescent glare of the practice room.
The space never stopped moving. A cluster of trainees near the sound system marked time with their feet, the rhythm spilling from their lips in whispered numbers five, six, seven, eight, rubber soles chirping against scuffed linoleum like anxious birds. By the mirrors, a boy worked through body rolls in excruciating slow motion, each vertebra a separate decision, his reflection warping slightly in the cheapest panels. His tank top clung to him like a second skin. Two girls had claimed the back corner as their own cathedral, voices braiding together in tentative harmony, fingers worrying at loose threads on their shorts as if unraveling something other than fabric.
But Chase wasn't watching them anymore.
His attention drifted back to the bench where Seoyun had been sitting. Her bag was still there, a canvas tote layered in stickers like a lived-in scrapbook, anime characters he half-recognized overlapping band logos and glittering stars. Her over-ear headphones rested on top, one foam pad peeling at the seam, curled in on themselves like they were waiting for her to come back. Beside them sat her water bottle, the clear plastic almost completely buried beneath My Melody decals, pink and white crowding out the water inside as if she'd tried to hide it from the world.
They were small things. Ordinary things. And yet, despite having met her only moments ago, Chase felt a quiet responsibility settle in his chest. So he stayed put, keeping watch over her belongings, waiting for her evaluation to end and hoping she'd return with good news. He sat still, scrolling through his phone, reading articles about PLAIN's open auditions or rumors about what PLAIN was cooking up.
Like them, he was in the dark, not knowing what PLAIN had in store. His mind drifted back to HYBE, to when he'd made friends with the group. When he'd had people who felt like home.
HYBE's practice room had been massive floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a sound system that could rattle your bones, and equipment so new it still had that fresh-out-the-box smell. Chase remembered being intimidated by it at first, as if the space were swallowing him whole. But the other members had made it smaller, warmer. Made it feel like somewhere he could belong.
There was Jinho, the oldest at nineteen, who'd spotted Chase's deer-in-headlights look on day one and decided to fix it. "Yo, new kid," he'd said in English so thickly accented that Chase had to work not to smile, "you look like you're gonna throw up. Come here." Jinho had this way of filling up a room just by walking into it, loud, confident, the kind of person who made you feel like everything would be okay even when it probably wouldn't. He'd taught Chase all the Korean slang the textbooks skipped over, usually by using it wrong first and cracking up when Chase corrected him.
Chase remembered the night Jinho bought them all convenience store ramyeon at 1 AM, making them eat it in the practice room even though they'd definitely get in trouble if anyone found out. "Rules are for people who suck at not getting caught," he'd said, grinning as he'd just won something. They'd sat in a circle on the floor, slurping noodles and talking about the dumbest stuff, favorite anime, worst haircuts they'd ever had, the stupidest ways they'd gotten grounded as kids. Jinho did an impression of their choreographer that made Minjae laugh so hard he literally choked on his noodles, and Chase had felt, for the first time since his dad died, like maybe he wasn't completely alone anymore.
In formation, Jinho stood center. The leader, before anyone officially called him that.
Minjae was the technical one. Quiet, focused, the type who'd drill the same eight-count like fifty times until it looked easy. He didn't talk much, but when he did, everyone shut up and listened. Chase had spent so many late nights with him, Minjae breaking down footwork frame by frame, never making Chase feel stupid for needing extra help. "Again," he'd say, patient every single time. "You're rushing it. Feel it, don't think so much."
But Minjae had another side too—he'd hum under his breath when he thought no one was paying attention, and he'd leave notes in everyone's bags with terrible drawings and even worse jokes. Once, he drew Jinho as a literal potato with stick arms and wrote "our fearless leader" under it. Jinho taped it to the mirror and refused to take it down for weeks. Minjae acted like he didn't care, but Chase caught him smiling at it when he thought no one was looking.
He stood to Jinho's left, posture perfect even when he was just standing there, eyes tracking every single movement in the mirror like he was studying for a test.
Yunho was the heart of them. Vocalist, visual, the guy who could probably make friends with a brick wall if he tried. His voice was insane—smooth and rich in a way that made even the vocal coaches stop and actually listen. But more than that, he noticed stuff. When Chase got homesick, missing his mom, Oakland, and his dad's grave, he couldn't visit. Yunho had been the one to sit with him in the stairwell at 2 AM, not saying anything, just being there. He'd brought his guitar and played quietly, old American songs Chase's dad used to love—Wonderwall, Wish You Were Here—and he didn't ask why Chase was crying. Just let him.
Yunho taught Chase how to make kimchi jjigae the way his grandma made it, staying patient through every single mistake, every time Chase added too much gochugaru or not enough doenjang. "Cooking's like singing," Yunho had said, stirring the pot like he'd done it a million times. "You gotta feel it out, not just follow the recipe exactly." They'd eaten it together at the dorm table, just the two of them, and Yunho told him about his own dad—a guy who wanted him to be a doctor, who still didn't really get the whole idol thing but was trying. "He'll come around eventually," Yunho had said. "They do, if they actually love you."
Chase had wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe his mom would stop seeing his dream as him betraying his father's memory and start seeing it as him honoring it.
He stood to Jinho's right, tall enough to balance the formation, his reflection catching the light in a way that made him look almost unreal.
And Taewon, barely older than Chase, who'd been so relieved to pass the maknae responsibilities to someone else, had actually hugged Chase when they first met. "Thank god," he'd said dramatically, grabbing Chase's shoulders like a drowning person finding land. "I'm finally free. You're the baby now." He joked constantly, deflecting everything literally with humor, but Chase had caught him practicing alone sometimes, way after everyone else went home, his face serious in a way it never was around other people.
Taewon was the one who stayed up with Chase the night before their first showcase, both of them too nervous to sleep, running through the choreo in the dark dorm room in their socks, trying not to wake anyone up. "What if I completely mess up?" Chase had whispered, and Taewon had shrugged, grinning even in the dark. "Then we both mess up. Make it look intentional. Synchronized failure that's teamwork, right?" They'd laughed way too loud and woken up Jinho, who threw a pillow at them and told them to shut the hell up, but there was no real anger in it. Just the comfortable annoyance of people who'd become family.
Taewon had also been the first person Chase really told about his dad. Not just the basic facts but the actual feelings, the guilt, the anger, the way grief felt like drowning in slow motion. They'd been sitting on the dorm roof, definitely not allowed up there, splitting a melona bar and watching the Seoul skyline light up the night. "My dad wanted me to take over his restaurant," Taewon had said quietly, after Chase finished talking. "He was so pissed when I auditioned. Didn't talk to me for like, six months." He paused, licking melona off his thumb. "But I think... I think if we only did what made other people happy, we'd just disappear. You know? Like, we'd stop being real people."
Chase had understood. Had felt seen in a way he hadn't since his dad died.
Taewon stood beside Chase on the end, the two youngest holding down opposite sides of the formation.
Chase stood on the far left, still getting used to his spot, still learning how they moved as one unit, five separate people becoming one thing, something bigger than any of them alone.
They'd been together for eight months. Eight months of 4 AM wake-ups and dance practices that left them so sore they had to help each other up stairs. Eight months of inside jokes and shared meals and the specific kind of closeness that comes from suffering together toward the same dream. They'd become a unit, a system, a family.
And then, on a Tuesday that had started like any other, the managers had called them into the conference room.
Chase had known something was wrong from the moment. The room was too quiet, the air too heavy. Their main manager stood at the head of the table, and he wouldn't meet their eyes.
"We're disbanding the group," he'd said, and the words had landed like a physical blow. "The debut has been canceled. We're reallocating resources to other projects."
For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then Jinho had laughed a short, sharp sound with no humor in it. "You're joking," he'd said in Korean, his voice flat. "This is a joke, right?"
"I'm sorry," the manager had said, and he'd sounded like he meant it, but that didn't change anything. "You'll all be released from your contracts. We'll provide references for other agencies-"
"References?" Minjae's voice had been so quiet that Chase almost didn't hear it. "We don't need references. We need a debut. We've been training for years-"
"The decision is final."
Yunho had stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor, the sound obscenely loud in the silent room. His hands were shaking. Chase had never seen Yunho's hands shake. "You can't just, we're a team. We're ready. We're good-"
"I know," the manager had said, and maybe he did, but it didn't matter. "I'm sorry."
Taewon hadn't said anything. He'd just stared at the table, his jaw working like he was trying not to cry, and that had been worse somehow than if he'd yelled.
Chase had felt numb. Distantly, he'd registered Jinho arguing, his voice getting louder, more desperate. Minjae had put his head in his hands. Yunho had walked out, and Chase had heard something hit the wall in the hallway: a palm, a fist, he didn't know.
All he could think was: Not again. Not again. Please, not again.
He'd lost his dad. He'd lost his home. He'd lost the future he'd imagined, the one where his father got to see him succeed.
And now he was losing this, too. Losing them.
They'd packed up the dorm together, the five of them moving through the space like ghosts. No one talked much. What was there to say?
Jinho had tried to keep spirits up, cracking jokes that fell flat, suggesting they stay in touch, maybe form their own group independently. But his voice had cracked on the last part, and he'd stopped talking after that.
Minjae had methodically sorted through his things, folding clothes with the same precision he brought to choreography, as if he could just keep his hands busy, he wouldn't have to feel anything.
Yunho had cried. Openly, unashamedly, sitting on his stripped bed with his guitar in his lap, playing nothing, just holding it.
Taewon had made it until the very end. They'd all said their goodbyes, exchanged numbers they promised to use, and made plans they probably wouldn't keep. And then, as Chase had been walking out the door for the last time, Taewon had grabbed his arm.
"Hey," he'd said, and his eyes were red-rimmed, his voice thick. "Your dad would be proud of you. You know that, right? Like... even with this. Especially with this. You didn't give up."
Chase had nodded because he couldn't speak. If he spoke, he'd break, and he couldn't break, not again, not in front of Taewon, who was barely holding it together himself.
They'd hugged, and it had felt like goodbye in a way that made Chase's chest ache.
His mind drifts back, back into the room where he sat next to Seoyun's stuff. It's been fifteen minutes since she left. Then 20. Then 23, when she walked back in, a full smile on her face. Chase looked up from his phone, and the relief that washed over him was immediate and unexpectedly strong. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until his shoulders dropped.
Seoyun's eyes were bright, almost glassy, like she was holding back tears, the good kind. Her cheeks were flushed, probably from nerves finally releasing their grip, and she was walking fast, that smile threatening to split her face in half.
"So?" Chase asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear her say it. He stood up, pocketing his phone.
"I-" Seoyun's voice cracked slightly. She cleared her throat, laughing at herself. "I passed. They said I passed."
"See? Told you." Chase grinned, that easy confidence sliding back into place. "Told you you'd kill it."
"Shut up," she said, but there was no bite to it. She grabbed her water bottle from the bench, hugging it to her chest like a lifeline. "I was so scared. Like, I thought I was gonna throw up in there."
"But you didn't."
"No. I didn't." She looked at him then, really looked at him, and something shifted in her expression, gratitude mixed with disbelief. "You waited."
It wasn't a question, but Chase answered anyway. "Yeah. 'Course I did." He gestured to her bag. "Someone had to make sure nobody stole your stuff. That Hello Kitty bottle's probably worth millions."
Seoyun laughed, the sound lighter than before, less weighted by anxiety. "It's worth like three dollars, but thanks." She slung her bag over her shoulder, still clutching the water bottle. "Seriously, though. You didn't have to wait."
"I know," Chase said simply. "Wanted to."
"Did they say anything?" Chase asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "About what happens next, I mean."
"Yeah, they mentioned future evals. And then maybe working in groups." She looked at him, a faint glint lighting her eyes. "Looks like getting to know you might've been a pretty good move."
Chase felt heat creep up his neck. "I mean, yeah, maybe. Or like, you would've been fine either way, you know? You're really good." He was fumbling now, could hear himself doing it. "But yeah. Cool. That's... that's cool."
Seoyun's mouth twitched. "You're blushing."
"I'm not-" He touched his face reflexively. "It's just warm in here."
"Sure." She was definitely smiling now, and it made her whole face different, less guarded, more her age. "So, um. Do you have KakaoTalk? Or like, should we exchange numbers or whatever? Since we might be... I don't know, working together?"
"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, definitely." Chase pulled out his phone too fast and nearly dropped it. "Sorry, I...here."
They did the awkward phone-swap dance, both of them typing carefully, double-checking the numbers. When Seoyun handed his phone back, Chase saw she'd saved herself as "Seoyun (PLAIN)" with a small star emoji next to it.
"I added the star so you'd remember which Seoyun," she said, like there were dozens of them in his contacts.
"Right. Smart." Chase showed her his entry in her phone: "Chase (waiting room guy)."
She snorted. "Perfect. Very professional."
They stood there for another moment, neither quite ready to leave but not sure what else to say. Finally, Seoyun shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. "I should probably... my mom's waiting outside."
"Yeah, yeah, of course. I'll I walk out with you? If that's what I mean, if you're going that way anyway."
"I'm literally going to the exit, Chase. Everyone's going that way."
"Right. Obviously."
They walked through the building together, past the glossy promotional posters of PLAIN's current artists, past the practice rooms still humming with music and ambition. The elevator ride down was quiet, but it was the comfortable kind of quiet, the kind where you didn't need to fill every second with words.
Outside, the Seoul evening hit them cooler now, the sky deepening to purple, streetlights flickering on. The Gangnam sidewalk was crowded with people heading home from work, students in uniform, and the city's constant flow.
Seoyun spotted her mom's car idling at the curb. "That's me."
"Cool. Yeah." Chase shoved his hands in his pockets. "So, um. Good luck? With the next eval and everything."
"You too." She hesitated, then added, "Thanks. For today. For waiting and... yeah. Just thanks."
"Anytime." He meant it.
Seoyun started toward the car, then turned back. "Hey, Chase?"
"Yeah?"
"Text me sometime. Like, not just about trainee stuff. If you want."
Before he could answer, she was gone, climbing into the backseat, the car pulling away into traffic. Chase stood there for a moment, watching the taillights disappear, a stupid smile spreading across his face.
His phone buzzed.
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: you're still weird btw
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: but like. good weird
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: see you at the next eval
Chase typed back quickly.
Chase: you're weird too
Chase: (also good weird)
Chase: see you
He pocketed his phone and started walking, with home on his mind, moving through the Seoul evening. The city felt different now, less foreign, less like a place he was trying to force himself into. The neon signs, the smell of street food, the rapid-fire Korean conversations flowing around him, it all felt a little more like it could be his.
His dad's voice came back to him, that conversation in the Oakland kitchen years ago. The best artists, they're not afraid to be vulnerable. They're not afraid to tell the truth, even when it's messy.
.Chase had been so scared of the mess. Scared of not being Korean enough, not being American enough, not being enough period. Scared of losing people, of not belonging anywhere, of carrying his father's memory wrong
But maybe that was the point. Maybe the mess was where the truth lived.
He thought about Seoyun, how scared she'd been in that waiting room, how she'd still walked into that evaluation and sang her heart out. He thought about his HYBE brothers, scattered now but still part of him. He thought about his mom, trying so hard to give him a home in a country that felt like a memory.
Chase pulled out his phone again, scrolling to his dad's contact. He'd never deleted it, couldn't bring himself to. The number no longer worked, but sometimes he still typed messages into the void.
Chase: had my eval at PLAIN
Chase: said i had no flaws
Chase: felt great but might have to work in groups
Chase: hopefully with this girl
Chase: she seemed cool
He didn't send them. He never did. But writing them helped, made his dad feel less gone, made the path forward feel less impossible.
The subway station glowed ahead, and Chase headed toward it, his reflection catching in a store window.
His phone buzzed again.
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: thanks again for you know
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: guarding my stuff
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: and waiting for me
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: that's all
Chase grinned, typing as he walked.
Chase: no problem 😊
Chase: cya ther3
Chase: sucka
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: ugh
Seoyun (PLAIN) ⭐: you suck
Chase descended into the subway, the fluorescent lights harsh after the purple evening, the platform crowded with people heading home. He found a spot against the wall, pulled out his earbuds, and scrolled to his dad's playlist
As the train pulled in and the doors opened, Chase felt something settle in his chest. Not certainty, exactly. Not the feeling that everything would work out or that he'd finally found all the answers.
The doors closed, and the train lurched forward, carrying him home.