The company building wasn't the type you'd see in idol documentaries or glossy behind-the-scenes videos. It was small—tucked between a laundromat and a sleepy café in the quieter part of Seoul. No gold lettering. No neon signs. Just a plain glass door and a scuffed buzzer that buzzed twice before unlocking.
Kim Chong stepped inside, heart hammering. His lucky sneakers squeaked faintly against the polished floor—frayed at the edges, soles thinned from months of use. But they had gotten him here.
A receptionist with gentle eyes waved him in. "Second round? Right this way."
The waiting room was dead silent.
Only four others sat there—older, sharper. Two wore matching black training jackets from other agencies. One was lean and quiet, but Kim recognized him instantly: a finalist from a survival show that trended all over YouTube.
Kim swallowed hard. His palms felt like ice.
"Kim Chong?"
He jolted upright.
A staff member held the door open. "You're next."
Inside, the audition room was cold and sterile. A single studio light hummed above, casting long shadows on the mirrored walls. Three evaluators sat at a foldable table, notes and water bottles lined in front of them.
One of them glanced up. "We remember you," she said, flipping through papers. "Your vocals were rough but emotional. You surprised us."
Kim bowed deeply. "Thank you for the chance."
"We're testing range today. Vocals first, then freestyle dance. No cuts. You ready?"
He nodded, but his throat tightened. No second takes this time.
The track started: a stripped-down piano version of a classic ballad. Slow. Pure. Unforgiving.
Kim closed his eyes.
He didn't sing for them. He sang for the boy who had stood on rooftops whispering into the sky. For the version of himself who nearly quit. For his mother's quiet room. For his brother's tired smile. And for the girl who had believed in him when he couldn't—Ha-eun, still sending him dumb memes, late-night messages that said 'just in case,' and looks that saw too much.
His voice trembled at first. But then it soared.
When the final note faded, the silence that followed felt enormous.
One judge leaned forward. "Improved control," she murmured. "He's been training hard."
Another simply tapped his pen. "Next—freestyle dance. Choose your own style."
Kim Chong took one breath. Two.
Then the beat dropped—a raw hip-hop instrumental.
His body moved before his thoughts could catch up.
The cracked linoleum of that run-down training studio flashed through his mind—rainy nights, broken speakers, Ha-eun laughing mid-spin like nothing else mattered. He danced with all of that inside him.
It wasn't perfect. But it was alive.
When it ended, sweat dripped from his jaw. His chest heaved.
The judges didn't smile. But they didn't stop whispering either.
"Thank you," one finally said. "We'll be in touch."
It was over.
He walked out into the hallway, head still buzzing.
And there she was.
Ha-eun, leaning casually against the vending machine, hair tied up, cheeks pink from the cold. "Well?" she said, pretending she hadn't been checking the time every two minutes.
Kim broke into a grin. "I gave everything."
Ha-eun's face softened, just a little. She bumped her shoulder into his. "That's all you ever need to do."
He laughed, lighter than he'd felt in weeks. "I'm starving."
"I know," she said. "Your freestyle looked like it cost you a kidney."
They walked side by side through the quiet street. Overhead, lights twinkled like soft promises. Cars passed. A busker played a sad song across the street. Somewhere nearby, someone burned sweet potatoes on the curb.
For the first time, Kim didn't feel like he was chasing the dream.
He felt like the dream was finally turning its head—and looking back at him.