[EMY]
The snippet and clip of AUREA's song and dance routine—I "accidentally" leaked it online.
Accidentally, as in: I trimmed it to perfection, color-graded it with filters that made their sweat look like liquid gold, synced the beats to dramatic zoom-ins, and slapped on subtitles that screamed "THE NEXT LEGENDS??"
But I didn't stop there. No, no, no. Viral-ology required a multi-front attack.
I uploaded the clip under at least twelve different burner accounts—each one with a fake backstory.
"Ex-trainee leaks secret footage."
"Jealous staff drops hidden video."
"Mysterious fangirl posts unseen practice."
I made sure the captions were dramatic enough to bait clicks but vague enough to avoid lawsuits.
Then I went to work on hashtags like a black-belt in stan Twitter warfare:
#WhoIsAUREA
#NextBigThing
#UnpolishedGems
#LeakedPracticeButSlayedAnyway
I even doctored fake screenshots of anonymous "industry insiders" praising them—complete with a blurry profile picture of a stock model that screamed "reliable but shady."
And the cherry on top? I slipped the clip into random fandom wars.
Someone fighting over whose idol had the best footwork? Boom—insert AUREA clip.
Someone arguing over stage charisma? Bam—cue AUREA's synchronized hair flips.
Fandom chaos guaranteed eyeballs.
Within hours, arguments had turned into theories, theories into threads, and threads into social media edits with captions like: "Who are these boys and why do they dance like my rent depends on it???"
By midnight, AUREA wasn't just a small-time boyband. They were a mystery obsession the internet couldn't stop dissecting.
And I sat back in my swivel chair, sipping my instant coffee like an evil mastermind, whispering, "Dance, my viral children, dance."
====
For days I'd been building the curiosity—little breadcrumbs here, an eyebrow-raising clip there—feeding the internet's hunger until the whispers hit a fever pitch.
Then, one reckless night, I slapped a date and time across every platform I controlled and called it The Leak Live.
I blew the last of the loan on a tiny park stage—no velvet curtains, no fog machines, just a scuffed riser, a row of string lights, and a rented speaker the size of a small refrigerator.
If STAR wouldn't give them screens, I would make them debut in front of anyone who had a phone and an appetite for discovery.
If they couldn't be on TV, they'd be on ten thousand timelines at once.
Promotion was guerrilla, shameless, and, frankly, joyous.
I seeded the spot with faux "industry insiders" and fan accounts speculating about a secret pop-up.
I paid three buskers to start a perfectly choreographed warm-up routine two blocks away—just enough to make passersby think, "Wait . . . is that a flash mob?"
A couple of food carts were bribed with free bento boxes to hand out flyers with QR codes (scan for a surprise!); the codes led straight to our livestream links.
On the day, I had a squad of bored college editors ready with phones and gimbals—real accounts, burner accounts, and an influencer or two I'd sweet-talked with bribed ramen.
The stream was multi-platform across social media, and a few obscure livestream apps I'd learned in my "research."
I also slipped short, perfectly loopable clips to dance creators with captions like "Who taught these moves?!?" and the algorithm did the rest, drooling happily.
Everything was ready, perfectly set. The only thing missing? The boys themselves.
====
[EMY]
"What? What are you saying, Emy?" Eric blinked at me like I had just told him I was about to launch a rocket to Mars.
Rightfully so. If I suddenly found out I was supposed to perform live tomorrow in the middle of a public park, I would probably throw up, faint, and haunt whoever told me the news.
We were all crammed into my apartment living room—well, it wasn't really a living room, more like a glorified shoebox with a couch that had seen better days.
"I mean . . ." I spread my arms, grinning nervously. "You guys wanted a debut, right? Well, tadaaa! Here's your chance! A live show in front of real people. Cameras, phones, the internet—it's all lined up to blow you onto the big stage."
"More like we're completely stunned at the whole turn of events," Kai muttered, running a hand through his hair. "How the hell did you even pull this off?"
I scratched my cheek and gave the weakest smile in history. "We-well . . . I know some people."
Lance leaned forward, eyes locked on mine like he could peel away my skin and read the truth underneath. "Are you sure that's all you did?"
I looked away so fast I almost gave myself whiplash. Nope. Abort. Change topic. "That's not important! What's important is that tomorrow—you guys get to perform! Finally!"
Ren, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke, his voice low and deep. "Are you also the reason we've been going viral the past few days?"
". . . Uh." I bit my lip. Could I not answer that? Pretty please? "Of course not. I only, uh, casually leaked a few of your practice sessions and videos online. You boys are handsome, talented, and charismatic. Naturally, the internet fell in love."
"Really?" Eric crossed his arms, looking utterly unconvinced. "Because we've been posting our own content for months, and nothing ever blew up like this."
I forced out a laugh so fake it probably deserved an Oscar. "Ahaha . . . well, maybe I just got lucky? Right place, right time? Maybe the algorithm and I are soulmates?"
Eric sighed, looking every bit the annoyed leader. "Emy, we appreciate your effort. Really. But shouldn't you have talked to us before making this kind of decision on your own?"
I flinched, guilt sinking in. "S-sorry. I was so busy the past few days . . . it completely slipped my mind. But isn't this an opportunity? People are curious about you guys right now. This is the perfect time to strike while the iron's hot!"