As dawn cracked over the next day, most of the trainees were already shuffling around, getting dressed and ready, while a stubborn handful were still starfished across their beds, snoring like they were auditioning for a sleep-drama.
A few kind souls tried to wake their roommates with gentle nudges and soft threats. Some responded. Some did not. Some might've growled.
Everyone already knew the day's schedule — the massive digital board in the living room blasted it in bold letters the moment they moved in. No excuses. No surprises.
So when call time hit and the buses rolled up, a few trainees were left behind, victims of their own "five more minutes" delusion. The drivers didn't even blink. Door closed. End of story.
The rest were herded back to Jenga Tower, gathering in the open plaza. They chatted in small clusters, some buzzing with morning energy, others still half-asleep and clinging to their last brain cell.
The second they were told to head inside, the main lobby revealed their welcoming committee: Cat.
"Good morning, trainees!" she chirped, sounding like she'd mainlined three espresso shots and a motivational podcast.
"Good morning!" the trainees echoed back — some bright, some calm, some mid-yawn.
"Now, let's get to business." Cat's voice snapped from perky to razor-sharp in an instant. "As many of you have noticed, a few of your fellow trainees are missing. You won't be seeing them again."
If anyone hadn't been awake yet, that line punched them upright. Shock rippled through the lobby like a gust of cold wind.
"Unfortunately," Cat continued, disappointment dripping from her tone, "some trainees decided to test their luck on day one and broke several rules. The ones missing were involved in an unauthorized drinking party late into the night — well past curfew."
She sighed, professional but clearly annoyed. "We've given you freedom within clear, explicit boundaries. Some people thought they could dance around them. So now, they're facing the consequences of their actions."
A low murmur rippled through the lobby—shock, confusion, a couple breathless "holy shits," and at least one dramatically awake gasp from the back. Even the sleepiest trainees suddenly straightened up, as if the air itself smacked a ruler across their spines.
Cat clasped her hands behind her back, posture pristine, expression sharp enough to cut through alibis. "I want all of you to understand one thing," she said, pacing slowly, her heels clicking like a countdown to doom. "This program is not a playground. It is not a vacation. It is not a gap year with better lighting."
Someone in the second row gulped way too loud. Cat didn't even look at them—she didn't need to. She heard their fear.
"This is a professional, elite-level training system designed to turn you into the best performers the world has ever seen. And that requires discipline." She stopped walking, eyes sweeping across the crowd like a biometric scanner. "If you can't handle going to bed on time, how in God's green planet do you plan to survive the next six months?"
A few trainees shrank. One clutched their backpack like it was their emotional support plushie.
Cat's expression softened—just a fraction. "Now. I'm not here to scare you."
A beat.
"Okay, I am here to scare you a little—but only because I want you to succeed."
Nervous giggles bubbled up. It helped. Barely.
"What happened last night is a warning. A very loud, very avoidable warning. You break the rules, you're out. No drama. No pleading. No last-minute ballads begging for second chances."
Her voice dropped into something sweet and lethal.
"And no, I do not care how good-looking you think you are."
Someone whimpered. Someone else mouthed, I told you so.
Cat clapped once—bright, sharp, final.
"Now that we're clear…"
Her blindingly cheerful smile snapped back into place like it had been waiting in the wings.
"…WELCOME to your first official training day!"
She gestured to the massive screen behind her. "You'll all be divided into two groups. Your names will appear on the screen in just a moment."
Right on cue, the remaining ninety-two trainees' names flashed across the giant display, split cleanly into two lists.
"You have exactly one minute to find the people in your group. Go."
Instant chaos. Trainees scrambled like caffeinated baby ducks searching for their flock.
Kang Ian stepped away from the cluster, taking charge with the calm confidence of someone who already knew what he was doing. Standing in an open spot, he raised his voice.
"Bobby, Isaac, Mika, Ryu, Leo, Co—Corsair?"
"Here!" a voice squeaked from behind a wall of tall dudes. A hand waved frantically. "Excuse me—coming through—sorry—ow—okay—sorry again—"
Eventually, Corsair popped free and reached Kang Ian.
Corsair, 5'7 and deceptively baby-faced, looked about fifteen despite being twenty-five. A Swiss-Japanese cutie living in Tokyo, adorable on the outside, deceptively athletic underneath. The kind of guy who looked like he needed a juice box but could outrun half the room.
Once both groups finally assembled, a loud chime rang overhead.
"Alright," Cat announced, "Group One will begin with vocal classes. Group Two—Kang Ian's group—will start with dance. After lunch, you'll switch. Understood?"
"Yes!" the trainees chorused.
"Perfect. Chop-chop, kiddos. Group One, third floor. Group Two, second floor. And hydrate—today's a sweat-fest."
With a sassy turn on her heel, Cat strutted off, leaving behind ninety-two scrambling trainees and the faint smell of impending doom.
Group Two trailed behind Kang Ian like a flock of baby ducklings who'd collectively decided, without a single spoken word, that he was their leader now. No vote, no discussion — the universe simply pointed at him and said, "That one."
When they reached the second floor, the production crew guided them to their assigned training hall. The moment they stepped inside, jaws dropped. The place was massive — gleaming wood floors, floor-to-ceiling mirrors so clean they could see their existential dread, a sound system that probably cost more than several of them combined, and every dance tool imaginable. If a dancer somewhere in the world had ever used it, this studio had three.
They were given a few minutes to explore, gawk, poke things they probably shouldn't poke, and whisper "holy shit" under their breaths.
Then Kang Ian clapped his hands and rallied the troops.
"Alright, everyone spread out and start stretching," he called out, voice steady, confident, annoyingly leader-coded. "We do not want anyone pulling or tearing a muscle this early in the program."
He didn't bark orders — he guided, and damn if it didn't work. His tone had that natural authority that made people obey without thinking twice.
And just like that, forty-six trainees fanned across the studio, dropping into stretches under Kang Ian's quiet but undeniable command.
.