There were mirrors on all four walls, and Han Mirae couldn't find a single angle where she didn't look like she was falling apart.
The bass dropped—loud, fast, merciless—and she tried to remember what came next: a spin, a cross-step, and a slide. Her right leg moved too late, her arms lagged behind her brain, and her ankle gave a sharp pulse of pain that nearly sent her toppling forward. Her foot hit the floor flat instead of on the ball, and her entire posture twisted out of rhythm. She missed the next two counts trying to correct herself.
Trainer Chae's voice cut through the music like a shard of ice.
"Stop."
Silence snapped over the studio. Every trainee froze mid-step.
Mirae's heart was pounding hard enough to shake her ribs. She straightened, drenched in sweat and dread. She didn't need to look to know the others were staring.
The studio lights above glared down mercilessly. Every mirror, every inch of glossy flooring, every faint breath in the room—everything was suddenly still. Except for her.
"You're off again, Trainee 83." Chae's tone was colder than usual. "That's the third time in five minutes."
Mirae didn't answer. Her mouth had gone dry. She could taste metal on her tongue. Her ankle throbbed beneath her weight, sharp and unforgiving, but she didn't dare shift it.
"Again," Chae snapped.
The music restarted.
They dove back into formation. Mirae tried harder to match the steps, but the tempo was relentless. The rhythm charged ahead like a train and she was always a step behind, tripping after the beat like a stray suitcase dragging her team down. She glanced at the others—Seo Yoon nailing each transition with quiet fluidity, Taeha focused, even the quieter trainees holding their ground.
And her?
She could see it in the mirror. Her face was pale, her movements frantic and unsure. Every time she landed on her right leg, her balance tipped just slightly—but enough to be noticed. Her muscles had started to tremble from overuse, and her breath was coming out in uneven gasps. She wasn't dancing. She was surviving.
She blinked and found herself locking eyes with Trainer Chae's reflection. The woman's gaze was hard, assessing, her lips pressed into a line of tight disappointment.
"Cut the track!" Chae barked.
The music stopped.
The silence rang louder than the beat ever had.
Everyone turned toward the center.
"Han Mirae."
Mirae turned too slowly. Her feet were heavy. Her vision swam.
"Step forward," Chae said. "Front and center."
Her body moved like it belonged to someone else. Her legs obeyed even as her heart begged her to disappear.
She stood alone beneath the center lights.
"You've been stumbling all day," Chae said. "Missing beats. Dragging tempo. You look terrified."
There it was. The word again.
Terrified.
The moment it was spoken aloud, the tension in the room broke. The other trainees' expressions shifted—some smug, some dismissive. Others simply indifferent.
"I'm—" Mirae's voice cracked. She swallowed. "I'm trying to get it right."
"You should've gotten it right before stepping into this studio." Chae paced closer, her arms crossed. "You want to debut, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Then prove you can handle pressure."
Mirae's blood ran cold.
Trainer Chae clapped once, sharply. "Everyone. Off the floor."
There were groans, scattered chuckles, and a few whispered bets on how badly this would go. Mirae stood frozen as the rest of the trainees cleared the center. A circle formed around her like spectators at a gladiator ring. And she was the one thrown to the wolves.
"Music," Chae ordered.
The song restarted.
The intro beat hit like a blow to the chest.
She tried to dance. Truly, she did.
The first move required a step and pop, but her limbs moved stiffly. The spin came too early. The wave was rushed. Her ankle nearly buckled on the slide. Mirae didn't even hear the snickers—she could feel them in the air, in the rising judgment radiating off the walls.
It was as if her own body had betrayed her. Her arms were leaden. Her feet were loose wires. Her head spun with the rhythm she couldn't catch. The choreography blurred into instinct and fear, and then suddenly—
the music cut.
Mirae stood panting in the middle of the room. Her chest rose and fell with rapid, uneven gasps. Sweat soaked her collar, her hairline, her lower back.
She didn't dare lift her head.
"That was a disaster," Trainer Chae said flatly. "You danced like you were being punished."
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd—Jiwon's unmistakably loud.
"I've seen mannequins with better rhythm."
"Shut up," someone whispered, but it wasn't enough.
Chae ignored it. "Fear has no place on stage. If you can't handle this, how will you survive the pressure of cameras and fans and schedules?"
Mirae pressed her lips together.
Trainer Chae stepped back. "We're done for today. Full choreography must be prepared solo by end of Day Three. No one will hold your hand."
The trainees began dispersing again, but Mirae stayed frozen.
She didn't need to hear the whispers. She could see them in the way they looked at her: with discomfort, pity, and most of all, with calculation. Weakness in this camp was contagious. No one wanted to catch it.
"Dead weight."
"She'll bring her team down."
"Why is she still here?"
The voice that said that last part wasn't a whisper.
It was Jiwon.
She strolled past Mirae with a smug smile and said, "If this is your 'serious face,' you should try comedy instead."
Mirae flinched.
Jiwon's voice dropped mockingly low. "I almost thought you were about to cry in the middle. That would've been the cherry on top."
A few more laughs behind her.
The sting was hot, but Mirae didn't move.
Tears weren't coming. Not now. Not here.
She turned to leave—but paused at the mirror.
There she was.
Exposed. Shaking. Drenched in sweat. Her face blotched and pale, hair clinging to her temples, her left foot slightly elevated to avoid pressure. Her limp had become visible by the end—and she'd known it. Known it, and still couldn't hide it.
In the mirror, she didn't look like someone who had a chance.
She looked like a girl on the verge of breaking.
She lowered her gaze.
"Hey," came a quiet voice.
Mirae spun.
It was Taeha.
He stood a few feet away, water bottle in one hand, his bag slung over his shoulder. He didn't smile, didn't frown—just looked at her with steady calm.
"You were off by half a beat after the chorus," he said. "Your weight was too far back."
Mirae blinked. "What?"
He stepped onto the dance floor, crouched slightly, and pointed at a line on the ground. "On the slide. Your balance leaned into your heel. That's why you kept tipping forward."
Mirae stared at him. He wasn't mocking her. He wasn't kind, either. Just observant.
"Your arms were better today," he added. "More control than last week."
She opened her mouth to reply—but he was already walking away.
He didn't offer encouragement. He didn't stay.
But he'd said it.
Better than last week.
It wasn't praise. It wasn't hope.
It was data. It was real.
Someone had seen her.
Someone hadn't written her off.
The studio emptied around her.
Her body ached. Her ankle screamed. Her pride was shredded.
But she turned back to the mirror and stepped into position.
She tried the move again. Slowly this time. Focused on her center. Focused on her heel. Pivot. Slide.
It still hurt.
But it didn't collapse.
She exhaled.
Looked at her own reflection.
And for the first time all day, she didn't look away.
She stared herself down.
Eyes wide. Lips pressed together.
She spoke quietly, only to herself—
"You're not done."
She didn't cry.
She didn't fall.
She stayed on the dance floor long after the lights dimmed.
Because quitting wasn't part of the routine.