A week passed.
The rejection still sat in Kim Chong's chest like a stone, but it no longer crushed him. Instead, it burned like quiet fuel. A reminder that he had finally done something for himself.
Seokjin noticed it first. Kim wasn't buried in med school prep books anymore. Instead, his desk was covered in sticky notes scribbled with vocal warm-ups, dance routine timestamps, and messy doodles of microphones. He was still tired—but it was a different kind of tired now. The kind that came after chasing something that mattered.
With no money for professional classes, Kim got creative.
He found a run-down dance studio across the Han River that offered free morning practice on weekdays and full-day access on weekends. The mirrors were cracked, the floor creaked every time he hit a beat too hard, and the speaker needed a solid whack on the side to work.
But to Kim, it was a palace.
He showed up every morning at 6 a.m., before his part-time shift at the convenience store. The air was cold enough to see his breath, and the heater made a noise like a dying squirrel, but he danced anyway. Over and over. Sweat dripping down his back, frustration buzzing in his fingertips. He messed up a lot—but he kept going.
Until one morning, someone clapped.
Startled, he spun around mid-step and nearly tripped over his own foot. A girl stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes amused.
"Nice try," she said, raising an eyebrow. "But you missed that turn by like… Busan."
Kim blinked. "What?"
She strode in like she owned the place and executed the spin effortlessly. "Like this, genius."
Kim gawked. "Who even are you?"
"Ha-eun," she replied, flashing a mischievous grin. "Local dance ninja. I crash here sometimes. You new?"
"Kind of," Kim said, trying not to sound embarrassed. "Kim Chong."
Ha-eun looked him up and down. "Kim Chong, huh? You don't look like a Kim or a Chong."
"What does that even mean?"
"Nothing. I just like confusing people."
That was how it started.
From that day on, Ha-eun began showing up during his morning sessions. Sometimes she'd practice beside him, sometimes she'd criticize his footwork while eating a banana.
"You dance like a math teacher," she said once, tossing him a water bottle.
"Wow. Thank you. That's exactly what I was going for," he muttered.
"I can tell," she said with a wink.
But behind the teasing was honesty, and behind that honesty was a sharp eye for movement. She gave feedback that actually helped. Her words stung sometimes—but they landed where they needed to.
One Sunday afternoon, as they collapsed on the floor after back-to-back routines, Ha-eun looked over and asked, "So, you sing too?"
"A bit," Kim said, cautious.
"Good. You'll need both if you ever want to make it." She stood up and offered him a hand. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere."
He stared. "Where?"
"Secret underground audition chamber."
"What?!"
"Kidding. Community center. Open mic night. Every Sunday. No pressure, just vibes."
Despite himself, Kim followed. That Sunday, he stood in front of a small crowd—twelve people, tops. His hands shook. His throat felt dry. But Ha-eun stood in the back, giving him a double thumbs-up and an exaggerated wink.
He closed his eyes.
And he sang.
His voice cracked once. He forgot a line halfway through and covered it with an awkward laugh.
But when he finished, the room was quiet.
Then, one person clapped.
Then another.
And then, all twelve.
It wasn't perfect. But it was real.
As they walked home under the streetlights, Ha-eun bumped her shoulder into his and said, "You didn't suck."
Kim laughed. "Wow. High praise."
"I'm a generous mentor."
"Mentor? You're like a chaotic older sister."
"Excuse me, I'm younger than you, old man."
He smiled, eyes crinkling. For the first time in a while, things felt lighter. The dream still felt far—but it no longer felt impossible.
And somewhere deep in his chest, the voice returned.
You're getting closer.
They kept walking, their footsteps echoing in the quiet night.
After a while, Ha-eun spoke—quieter this time. "You know… my mom was a dancer."
Kim glanced at her. She wasn't smiling now.
"She quit when she had me," she continued. "Said dreams were expensive. Said bills didn't care if you hit the beat or missed it."
Kim didn't say anything. He just listened.
"I don't know. I guess I just want to prove it's not all a waste, you know? That maybe someone like us can still make it."
She kicked a pebble into the street and shrugged, the smirk returning. "Anyway. Enough drama. You're still doing that spin wrong."
Kim chuckled. "I liked it better when you were being vulnerable."
"Ew. Gross."
But her smile lingered a little longer that time.
And for Kim, that moment lingered too.
They walked side by side under the flickering streetlights, shadows stretching long on the pavement.
Ha-eun tugged her hoodie tighter. "You know," she said, eyes fixed ahead, "you're lucky. You still get to start from zero."
Kim glanced at her, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
She didn't answer right away. Just shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.
Then—so quietly he almost didn't catch it—she muttered,
"Some of us are already running from something."
Before he could ask, she picked up her pace, throwing over her shoulder,
"C'mon, old man. I'm not walking you home."
And just like that, the moment passed.
But Kim couldn't stop thinking about her words.