The morning after her debut was supposed to feel like a victory.
But for Han Mirae, it felt like exile.
No confetti. No celebration. No welcome party.
Just a duffel bag, a uniform, and a van with black-tinted windows.
She sat in the back seat, silent, her hands clenched in her lap. The city blurred past the window, but Mirae couldn't focus on anything. Her mind was still stuck on the moment she held the debut emblem in her hands, on the roar of the crowd, on the way the host's voice trembled when announcing her name—like even they couldn't believe she'd won.
But all of that was gone now. Replaced by uncertainty.
She glanced at the folded uniform inside the duffel bag. White, pristine, and almost too stiff. Stitched across the chest: #83.
No name. No rank. No title. Just a number.
Trainee Number 83.
She swallowed hard. They hadn't even let her return to the dorms. After the broadcast cut, she was pulled aside by staff and handed over to a new team—one with blank faces, no explanations, and military-like precision.
The driver didn't speak. Neither did the staff member riding shotgun.
The facility they arrived at looked more like a prison than a training center. High walls, keycard gates, and a steel sign overhead:
> VERSA ELITE TRAINING CAMP – NO ENTRY WITHOUT CLEARANCE.
The guards checked IDs, scanned Mirae with a handheld device, and opened the gate without a word.
This wasn't over.
It was beginning again.
Inside, everything was white. Too white. The floors, the walls, even the ceiling lights felt like they could peel your skin off.
They handed her a keycard and a rules booklet. No phones. No outside contact. All conversations monitored. Lights out at ten. Wake-up at six.
The trainer who greeted her looked like she hadn't blinked in five years.
"I'm Master Seo," she said. Her voice was ice. "Lead trainer. You're late."
Mirae opened her mouth, but the woman was already walking.
"Follow."
They led her to the central training hall.
It was massive—like a gym, a dance studio, and a drill yard combined. Screens lined the walls displaying real-time metrics: oxygen levels, vocal frequencies, heart rate charts. Cameras tracked every movement. It wasn't a training center. It was a lab.
Forty other trainees stood in formation. All dressed in the same uniform. All watching her.
Some of their faces were vaguely familiar—former contestants, background trainees from other programs. But most she didn't recognize. Their expressions were neutral. Some curious. Others hostile.
She walked the line like she was heading to execution.
Master Seo barked, "Trainee Number 83 has joined the Elite Cycle. You will treat her as one of your own."
Someone snorted.
Mirae turned in time to see a tall girl with lime-dyed hair looking away.
"Orientation begins now," said Master Seo.
The lights dimmed. A screen dropped down.
A familiar robotic voice began to speak.
"Welcome to VERSA Elite. This is not a school. This is a proving ground. You have sixty days. Ten will debut. Five will be reserves. The rest will be eliminated."
The screen changed.
42 Trainees. 10 Contracts. 5 Reserves. 27 Cuts.
Mirae stared. The numbers were real. Brutal. Final.
"Debut is not promised. It must be re-earned."
The room stayed quiet. No one asked questions. No one blinked.
After orientation, physical evaluations started. They weren't like the ones on the show.
These tests were medical, mechanical. Cameras recorded joint movement. Breath patterns. Vocal resonance. Mirae was hooked up to a machine that measured diaphragm expansion.
Then came the stamina test. Run ten laps around the performance center.
Mirae took a breath and pushed off the wall.
Her ankle protested immediately. The tape hidden beneath her sock gave some support, but every step was fire. She grit her teeth and kept moving.
By the seventh lap, she was falling behind. By the ninth, the lime-haired girl lapped her.
"Figures," the girl muttered.
Mirae ignored her. She crossed the finish line, gasping, her lungs burning.
A clipboard scratched behind her.
Another test. Vocal range. Then flexibility. Then reflex.
No rest.
The trainer watching her said nothing. Just scribbled notes.
By the time the assessments ended, Mirae could barely feel her legs. Sweat dripped down her spine, soaking into the collar of her uniform.
They led her to a dorm. Four beds. Metal frames. One shared bathroom. Her name wasn't on the door. Just a card: Room 17.
Her roommates were already there.
One had bandaged knuckles and cut-short black hair. Another sat cross-legged with earbuds in. The third glanced up, then went back to unpacking. No one greeted her.
Mirae climbed to the top bunk. Her hands were shaking. She stared at the ceiling, the red bracelet hidden under her sleeve glowing faintly.
You survived debut. Now survive this.
She lay still for a long time, eyes open. The mattress was thin, the metal frame creaked, and the air conditioning was too cold.
She thought about Jiyeon. About Bora. About Team C. Would they be proud of her? Would they even know where she was?
The bracelet flickered.
She rolled over.
Someone shifted below her.
Then a voice, quiet but firm: "Don't break."
Mirae blinked.
The girl with bandaged knuckles lay staring at the ceiling.
"But if you do," she added, "make it worth it."
Mirae didn't answer. She didn't sleep either.
Because she already knew—
The real fight had just begun.
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Author's Note – By DarkInkQueen:
Thank you for reading! 💥 If you're rooting for Mirae's survival and hungry to see what she faces next, leave a comment or drop a power stone. Your support helps this story rise just like Mirae is fighting to. The real test starts now—so don't blink. 💫🖤