[EMY]
"Augh . . . I'm done for," I groaned, slumping forward onto my desk like a soldier who had just returned from battle.
Smoke—yes, actual smoke—was practically coming out of my eyeballs from the lack of sleep. My reflection on the laptop screen looked like a horror movie extra.
Puffy eyes, hair sticking out like I'd been electrocuted, and worst of all—acne blooming across my cheeks like a cursed strawberry farm.
Two nights. Two entire nights of no sleep. Why? Because I, the genius mastermind, decided to cook up a "brilliant" infiltration plan into Star Entertainment.
Only now, I wasn't sure if it was brilliance . . . or coffee overdose.
I had scribbled my plans into a notebook like some deranged general plotting world domination.
Step one: Make a social media account. Step two: Post covers of AUREA songs and original compositions. Step three: Go viral. Step four: Enter Star Entertainment like a queen with a fan army at my back.
Sounds solid, right?
Except . . .
There was just one small, microscopic, universe-destroying flaw: what if someone stole my songs before AUREA even heard them?
The thought of some random pretty boy singing my carefully stolen lyrics with a thousand-dollar smile while I rotted in obscurity made me want to punch the sun.
Still, I didn't stop there. Oh no. My desperate sleep-deprived brain had created a full Plan B through Plan F.
Plan B: Catfish as a mysterious masked songwriter. Like Batman, but with pimples. That way, no one would know who I was, and if my songs went viral, I could dramatically "reveal" myself later.
Problem: my dramatic reveal would look less "idol goddess" and more "unwashed gremlin who lives on instant noodles."
Plan C: Lure in followers with fake clickbait videos. Titles like: "You Won't Believe What This Girl Sang in the Shower" or "AUREA's Secret Songwriter EXPOSED." Spoiler: it's just me singing into my shampoo bottle.
Plan D: Stalk Star Entertainment's cafeteria until I "accidentally" bump into Eric and serenade him with his future hit song while dramatically spilling spaghetti on myself. Perfect meet-cute! (. . . or perfect way to get arrested. Fifty-fifty chance.)
Plan E: Pretend to be a janitor and sneak into their practice room. I could wear oversized glasses and push a mop while casually sliding sheet music under Eric's nose. Downside? If anyone actually asked me to clean something, I'd blow my cover instantly.
Plan F: This one was my personal favorite. Create a cult. Yes, you heard me. A full-on cult of die-hard AUREA fans. We'd wear matching glitter hoodies, scream fan chants in unison, and flood Star Entertainment with so much love (and maybe minor harassment) that they'd have no choice but to notice me.
Downside: cults are illegal . . . unless I branded it as a "fan club," in which case . . . genius!
I cackled manically, clutching my notebook like a true evil genius.
Then I caught sight of my reflection again and realized I didn't look like an evil genius. I looked like a raccoon who had just lost custody of its trash.
And I was sure that AUREA didn't have any large fan base yet.
If my calculations were correct—and trust me, I had calculated this down to the last lyric—they would build their career one song at a time, year after year, until finally, their big break would shatter the silence five years after debut.
Yes. Five long, excruciating years.
For five years, AUREA would be nothing more than wallpaper in the music industry. The audience's attention would always drift toward shinier, flashier boy bands—the kind with million-dollar music videos and glitter that cost more than my monthly rent.
Meanwhile, AUREA would be stuck hustling. No budget, no spotlight, no backup dancers—just raw talent and sheer stubbornness.
It was painful to watch in my past life. Painful and infuriating.
I wanted to shake the entire world and scream, "HELLO? Are you deaf?! Do you not hear their voices?!"
But the world, as always, had selective hearing.
Still, AUREA didn't crumble. No, they clawed their way up stage by stage, lyric by lyric, dance by dance. Every performance was a gamble: if they nailed it, they'd gain five new fans; if they messed up, they'd sink even lower into obscurity.
And the boys? They didn't stop. They couldn't.
They sang until their voices cracked. They danced until their legs gave out. They smiled at audiences who didn't bother clapping, and they bowed respectfully to people who wouldn't remember their names.
But then—oh, then—came the day when the world couldn't ignore them anymore.
A song. Just one song. One perfect song that hit so deep, so sharp, that even the big leagues had to shut up and listen.
A song that didn't just trend for a week, but exploded like wildfire across every chart, every social media platform, every radio station on the planet.
And from there, AUREA didn't just rise.
They soared.
They tore through the charts with a vengeance, like a band of underdogs who had finally been let off their leash.
Their stage performances? Legendary. Their fanbase? Relentless. Their visuals? Dangerous enough to break the internet on a random Tuesday.
People who once ignored them started screaming their names at concerts. The very idols who overshadowed them began secretly streaming their tracks. Producers who had dismissed them suddenly lined up to work with them.
They became a storm. No—a supernova.
And the funniest part? Everyone pretended they "always knew AUREA would make it." Ha! Sure. These were the same people who, five years earlier, barely clapped for them at charity gigs in smoke-filled bars.
But that was AUREA's power. They forced the world to pay attention, and once the world looked their way, there was no turning back.
And me? I wasn't about to wait five miserable years watching them suffer again. Oh no. Not this time. This time, I would cut the waiting, speedrun the suffering, and give them the break they deserved right here and now.
Because if fate thought it could drag my boys through half a decade of hell again, it had another thing coming.