Mirae didn't sleep that night.
After the announcement—after the cameras cut, the stage went dark, and the screaming gave way to breathless whispers—she was led away, not to the dorms, but to a private holding room.
No one explained anything.
Not the staff member who escorted her. Not the PA who handed her a water bottle and avoided eye contact. Not even the security guard stationed outside her door like she was some kind of threat.
She sat in the silence, numb, her performance costume still clinging to her like a second skin. Dried sweat. Smudged makeup. Her hair falling loose in strands.
The echo of the crowd still rang in her ears.
Mirae! Mirae! Mirae!
Her name. Chanted by strangers. Believed in by people she would never meet.
And yet... she was here.
Not on the winner's podium.
Not in the Top 10.
Not even given the dignity of closure.
She was in limbo.
And in that limbo, there was only one truth:
They were hiding something.
And whatever it was—it had everything to do with her.
-------
Morning came without sunlight.
By the time the door opened, Mirae had gone from numb to wired. Her mind kept replaying the performance. The rankings. The way Jiwoo had looked when her name was called—shocked, but hesitant. Like she hadn't expected it either.
A staff member entered. Clipboard in hand.
"Han Mirae, come with me."
No explanation.
No kindness.
Just the quiet, sharp click of her own footsteps down the hallway.
They didn't lead her back to the dorm.
They didn't lead her to the stage.
They led her to the basement studio—the one every trainee whispered about.
The one used for "special assessments."
The one they called Hell Room.
The sign on the door said simply:
TRIAL ROOM – CONFIDENTIAL.
Inside, five judges waited.
Not just producers—but high-level executives from VERSA Entertainment.
And standing beside them, arms folded, face expressionless, was Kwon Soojin.
Mirae's breath hitched.
Soojin was still here.
So was she.
And that meant the Top 10 wasn't final.
"Han Mirae," said Judge Ryu, his voice flat. "Step forward."
She did.
"Due to discrepancies found in the voting logs, one contestant's final placement has been suspended pending review. The final decision will be made through a live survival match."
Mirae's heart stopped.
"Match?" she whispered.
Ryu nodded. "You and Soojin will battle for the final spot in PR1SM. A head-to-head performance, evaluated live. The audience will vote again—this time in real time. One song. One performance. One final debut seat."
Soojin met Mirae's eyes. Cold. Calm. Determined.
No hatred—but no mercy either.
"This is your final chance," said Ryu. "For both of you."
Mirae's mouth was dry. "When?"
The answer chilled her blood.
"Tonight."
-------
They didn't let her return to the dorms.
Instead, she was shoved into a cold rehearsal room. Alone.
One mic. One speaker. One mirror.
No trainer. No support.
Just a note on the wall:
Original Song Challenge. Theme: "Rebirth." Time limit: 6 hours.
Her throat closed.
Write a song. Choreograph it. Rehearse it. Alone.
In six hours.
This isn't a challenge, she thought. It's a punishment.
She knew what this was.
They had wanted to eliminate her. Quietly. But the audience wouldn't let go. So now they'd create drama. Manufacture a final moment. Turn her last breath into a ratings spike.
Welcome to Hell.
The thought cracked something inside her.
And in that crack, something fierce began to burn.
Not anger. Not sadness.
Resolve.
If they wanted a show, she'd give them one.
But it wouldn't be her last.
------
The first hour was chaos.
Her thoughts were too loud. Her fingers trembling. Nothing she wrote felt right.
Rebirth.
It wasn't just a theme.
It was her truth.
Mirae closed her eyes and thought back to the beginning.
To her childhood, when she'd first dreamed of becoming a singer. Her mother's soft lullabies. Her father's silent support. Her own voice—raw and unsure but hungry.
To the day she was scouted.
To her rejection.
To Team C.
To Jiyeon and Bora.
To falling.
To failing.
To standing back up.
And then, like a flood, the lyrics poured out.
"I died once...
On the floor of a forgotten dream.
But I learned how to bleed in rhythm.
Now I rise—not from ashes—
But from everything you broke."
The melody came next.
Minor chords. Dark, slow build. Rising into an explosive chorus.
A song not of hope—but of survival.
Not of being saved—but saving herself.
She recorded a scratch vocal. Layered harmonies. Programmed a beat. Practiced moves that wouldn't aggravate her ankle but still hit like fire.
Time dissolved.
Her hands bled from hitting the floor in choreography. Her voice cracked twice. She kept going.
By the time the staff returned, she was drenched in sweat, hair plastered to her cheeks, heart pounding like a war drum.
But she was ready.
No matter the outcome, she would walk onto that stage as a warrior.
Not a victim.
-------
The studio stage was transformed.
Dark lighting. Red spotlights.
One microphone stood center, between two small platforms—Soojin on one, Mirae on the other.
The audience buzzed with confusion. Excitement. Anticipation.
Live broadcast. National TV.
The host stepped forward.
"Tonight, you'll witness a special one-time performance. The final debut seat for PR1SM will go to either Han Mirae or Kwon Soojin—based on your live votes. This is your decision, your group, your finale."
Mirae stepped forward.
The stage was hot. Heavy.
She looked across at Soojin—still calm, graceful, intimidating.
Then the music started.
And Mirae began.
A single note.
Soft. Vulnerable. Raw.
Her voice trembled—but she didn't hide it.
She leaned into it.
Every lyric wrapped around her ribs like armor.
She sang about falling. About betrayal. About being told "not enough."
And then—she danced.
Every move deliberate. Every step like a heartbeat.
Not flashy. Not perfect.
But real.
It was like watching someone come back from the dead.
She hit the bridge—and her voice soared.
"I'm not the girl you threw away.
I'm the fire you failed to drown."
The final note landed—and for a second, the studio was silent.
Then—
The crowd rose to their feet.
Tears.
Chants.
Clapping.
She couldn't see the judges' faces. Couldn't hear Soojin's breath.
She bowed, breathless.
Soojin stepped up.
Her performance was elegant. Technical. Clean.
But Mirae had already lit the room on fire.
And fire was hard to follow.
--------
The voting began.
60 seconds.
A screen above showed live bars updating in real time.
Soojin: 54%.
Mirae: 46%.
Mirae's heart dropped.
The numbers shifted.
47%.
48%.
51%.
Her breath hitched.
54%.
56%.
60%.
The crowd screamed.
The host nearly fumbled the mic.
"Final results are in!"
The screen flashed.
Winner: Han Mirae – 61%
She froze.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
The host called her name.
The crowd shouted.
Soojin stood still—no tears, no anger—just a small, quiet nod of respect.
Mirae stepped forward.
Someone placed a glittering prism-shaped brooch in her hand.
The symbol of debut.
It glittered like it belonged there.
And maybe, for the first time, it did.
But just before the lights went out—
A voice crackled in her earpiece.
"Han Mirae. Report to green room immediately. There's been a leak."
The light died.
The screen went black.
A new storm was coming.
And this time, she wouldn't be fighting alone.